"Good fortune has but one meaning for me, of which you already know. I beg you to say to one that a letter from her hand would give me greater joy than she can know, and that I would now send one to her if I felt safe in so doing. Please send all letters in cipher, addressed: 'Monsieur le Blanc, in care of 'Sieur de Catanet, at the sign of the Double Arrow on the Rue St. Antoine, counting nine doors from the street corner nearest the Bastile.'

"Your friend,

"LE BLANC."

When George wrote that he hoped for good fortune, I knew he had sound reason to expect it, for he was one who never permitted a mere possibility to take the form of hope, nor hope, however assuring, to take the aspect of certainty. Knowing this to be true, I found great joy in the letter, and when I told Frances, she did not pause even to give me one smile of thanks, but broke into a flood of tears and seemed to take great happiness in her tribulation.

I told Frances that we should answer the letter at once, and suggested that she have hers ready in my hands the following day, if she wished to write one. I also suggested that we meet in Bettina's parlor, where Frances's letter could be rewritten in cipher. We trusted Bettina as we trusted ourselves, and when we told her the good news, she clapped her hands for joy, laughing, yet ready to weep, and was as happy as even she could be, which was very happy indeed.

After we had talked, laughed, and cried a reasonable time in Betty's parlor, Frances handed me her letter, which was a bulky document, well taped and waxed.

"It will require a week for me to translate this," I remarked, weighing the letter in my hand.

"What do you mean by translating it?" she asked in surprise.

"I must write it out in cipher. Hamilton directed that all letters should be sent in that form," I answered, amused at her alarm.

"No, no!" she cried, snatching the letter from me, pressing it to her breast and blushing to her ears. "You shall not see my letter!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because," she answered.

"That is no reason," I replied. "Of course you have written nothing that you would not want me or your father to see?"

"Well, yes, I have," she returned emphatically. "A great deal. Would you, Betty, want any one to see such a letter written by yourself?"

"I suppose I could write a letter which I should want but one person in all the world to see," returned Betty, arching her eyebrows.

"To whom would it be directed, Betty?" I asked, to tease her.

A faint expression of reproach came to her eyes, but after a moment of pretty hesitancy, she answered boldly:—

"Since you are so unwise as to ask, I'll answer in like folly. The letter could be directed to but one person in the world—you."

I had received more than I had expected, and though I longed to make a suitable return, I dared not for the sake of my vows, so we all remained silent, and somewhat embarrassed, for a minute or two.

Turning to Frances, I said: "If you don't want me to read your letter, I'll give you the key, and you may make it into cipher." But after examining the key, she declared that she could never learn to use it, and I suggested that she write a shorter letter in terms fit for a modest man to read.

The next day she handed me a shorter letter, saying that she had cut and pruned it till there was nothing left worth sending, but I assured her that George would think otherwise.

When I read the letter, my eyes were opened to the fact that there was more fire in Frances's heart than I had supposed any woman capable of holding in subjection. But that is a mistake often made by men.

This was my cousin's "cut and pruned" letter:—

"DEAR ONE:

"Baron Ned says my letter must be short, so I smother what remnant of modesty I have, covering nothing with the veil of circumlocution, but telling you plainly what I know you want to hear. I love only you and am true to you in every thought, word, and deed. I long for you, yearn for you, pray for you, and be your fortune good or ill, I would share it and give you a part of the bliss of life which you would give to me.

"So I pray you, do not desert me in case your present hope of good fortune fails you, but let me know at any time, and I will go to you, and will go with you wherever you will take me.

"You will say, I fear, that none but a crazy woman would write such a letter as this, but if that be true, the world doubtless is and always has been populated by maniacs, and I pray God always will be. I pray you, remember, in judging me, that you are you and that I am but a woman by whom the good or evil of life is reckoned in the measure of her love; her joy or misery being only a matter of down weight or light weight more in the love she gives than in that which she receives. Remember, also, that in this letter I must condense when I might easily be prolix, and that after all is written, probably I shall have left unsaid the very thing I most wished to say. But these three words will tell it all and bear repeating: I love you.

"FRANCES."

And this from my sensible cousin! What would it be if her heart were not balanced by a wise head?

Our letters being written, I became alarmed about posting them in London, not knowing when a messenger would start for France, nor who he would be. The next day Frances and I talked it over, and she suggested that as the king and most of the court were about to visit Bath for a season, and as neither she nor I cared to go, we should take the letters to Dover, cross to Calais, and post them in France.

I sprang at the idea, but immediately sprang back, saying: "But it is not entirely proper for us to travel to Calais together, even though you are my sister-cousin."

"We may take father," she suggested. "Sarah wants to visit Lady St. Albans, and she can go if we take father with us. And, Baron Ned; I have another suggestion to offer. Let us take Bettina."

I sprang at that proposal and did not spring back. So we went first to my uncle, who said he would go with us, and then we went to see Bettina. She had recovered from her sprains and bruises, although she was still pale and not quite strong.

When Frances asked her to go with us, she answered, "Ay, gladly, if father consents."

Pickering, who was sitting with us at the time in Bettina's cozy parlor, turned to me, laughing, and said:—

"You would suppose, from Betty's remark, that I am master here, but the truth is my soul is not my own, and now her modest request for permission is made for effect on the company."

Betty ran to her father, sat on his knee, twined her arm about his neck, and kissed him as a protest against the unjust insinuation.

"You see how she does it," said Pickering. "No hammer and tongs for Betty; just oil and honey."

"And lots and lots of love, father," interrupted Betty.

* * * * *

Well, our journey was soon arranged on a grand scale. Pickering lent us his new coach, just home from the makers in Cow Street. It was cushioned and curtained and had springs in place of thorough-braces. It also had glass in the windows and doors; a luxury then little known in England even among the nobles. There was a prejudice against its use in coach windows because of the fact that two or three old ladies had cut their faces in trying to thrust their heads through it.

The new coach was a wonderful vehicle, and Frances and I, as well as Betty, were very proud of our grandeur. Pickering sent along with the coach and horses two lusty fellows as drivers, and gave us a hamper almost large enough to feed a company of soldiers. I was to pay all expenses on the road.

Almost at the last hour Sir Richard concluded not to go, but insisted that Frances, Bettina, and I take the journey by ourselves. As Pickering offered no objection, Frances shrugged her shoulders in assent, I shrugged mine, and Betty laughed, whereby we all, in our own way, agreed to the new arrangement, and preparations went forward rapidly.

By the time we were ready to start, the king, the duke, the duchess, and many ladies and gentlemen of the court circle had gone to Bath, thus giving us an opportunity to make our journey without the knowledge of any one in Whitehall; a consideration of vast importance to us under the circumstances. Some of our grand friends at court might have laughed at our taking the journey with an innkeeper's daughter, in an innkeeper's coach, but Frances and I laughed because we were happy.

There are distinct periods of good and bad luck in every man's life, which may be felt in advance by one sensitive to occult influences, if one will but keep good watch on one's intuitions and leave them untrammelled by will or reason. At this time "I felt it in my bones," as Betty would have said, that the day of our good luck was at hand.

All conditions seemed to combine to our pleasure when, on a certain bright spring morning, Betty, Frances, and I went down to the courtyard of the Old Swan, where we found the coach, the horses, and even the drivers all glittering in the sunshine.

There was ample room in the back seat of the coach for the three of us, so Betty took one corner, Frances made herself comfortable in another, and I took what was left, the pleasant place between them.

After Betty had kissed her father at least a dozen times, and had shed a few tears just to make her happiness complete, the driver cracked his whip and away we went, out through the courtyard gate, down Gracious Hill and across London Bridge before a sleepy man could have winked his eyes.

At first we thought we were in haste, but when we got out of Southwark and into the country, the dark green grass, the flowering hedges, the whispering leaves of the half-fledged trees, the violets by the roadside, and the smiling sun in the blue above, all invited us to linger. So we told the driver to slow his pace, and we lowered every window in the coach, there being no one in the country whose wonder and envy we cared to arouse by a display of our glass.

There was not room in Betty's little heart for all the great flood of happiness that had poured into it, so presently, to give it vent, she began to sing the little French lullaby we had so often heard, whereupon Frances and I ceased listening to the birds, and I was more thoroughly convinced than ever before that there were at least distinct periods of good fortune in every man's life.

Before reaching Gravesend, we halted at a grassy spot near the river bank, where we ate our dinner. When the horses had rested, we set off for Rochester, in which place we expected to spend the night at the Maid's Garter, a famous old inn kept by a friend of Pickerings.

I had noticed a twinkle in Pickering's eyes when he directed us to go to this tavern, but did not understand the cause of his merriment until I learned that by a curious old custom, a maid seeking entrance for the first time must contribute one of her garters before being admitted. The worst feature of the usage was that the garter must be taken off at the door, and then and there presented to the porter, who received it on the point of his official staff.

After entering Rochester, we went to the Maid's Garter and at once drove into the courtyard, as the custom is with travellers intending to remain all night.

When we left the coach and started to climb the steps to the great door, we found the landlord and his retinue waiting to receive us. Frances was in the lead, and when we reached the broad, flat stone in front of the door, the head porter stepped before her, bowed, and asked humbly:—

"Is my lady maid or madam?"

Frances looked up in surprise, and he repeated his question.

"What is that to you, fellow?" asked Frances.

"It is this, my lady," returned the porter. "If my lady be a maid, she must pay me one of her garters as her admission fee to this inn. If she be madam, she enters free. It is a privilege conferred on the Maid's Garter by good St. Augustine when he was Bishop of Canterbury, so long ago that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary."

"What nonsense is this?" asked Frances, turning to me, and Bettina asked the same question with her eyes. I explained the matter, and Frances, turning to the porter, said:—

"I'll buy you off with a jacobus or a guinea."

"Not a hundred guineas would buy me off, my lady," answered the porter, bowing, "though I might say that a shilling usually goes with the garter."

"Well, I'll send you both the shilling and the garter from my room," said Frances, moving toward the inn door.

"The garter must be paid here, my lady. The shilling may be paid at any time," returned the porter, with polite insistence.

Frances was about to protest, but Betty, more in sympathy with the eccentric customs of inns, modestly lifted her skirts, untied her garter and offered it to the porter, telling him very seriously:—

"I am a maid."

The porter thanked her gravely, whereupon Frances, turning her back on the audience in the doorway, brought forth her garter, gave it to the porter, and we were admitted.

Our supper, beds, and breakfast were all so good that they reconciled Frances and Bettina to the payment of the extraordinary admission fee, and when we left the next morning, curiosity prompted them to pass near the garter rack in the tap-room, where garters were hanging which had been taken from maids whose great granddaughters had become great grandmothers. The garters that had belonged to Frances and Bettina, being the latest contributions, hung at the bottom of the rack, neatly dated and labelled, and, as I left the room, I overheard Bettina whisper to Frances:—

"I'm glad mine was of silk."

We made a short drive to Maidstone, where we stopped over night. The next day a longer journey brought us to Canterbury, where we spent two nights and a day, visiting the cathedral both by sunlight and moonlight; the combination of moonlight and Bettina being very trying to me.

From Canterbury we drove in the rain to Dover, where we lodged at that good inn, the Three Anchors, to await a fair wind for Calais.

During the next three days the wind was fair, but it was blowing half a gale, and therefore the passage was not to be attempted. Though I was enjoying myself, I was anxious to post our letters, as mine gave a full account of several matters at court concerning which I knew George ought to be informed.

Among other news, I told him that King Charles had sent a messenger into France carrying a personal letter to King Louis, asking his help in finding the man Hamilton, who had threatened Charles's life. I also suggested in my letter that the king of France was trying to buy the city of Dunkirk from King Charles, and that because of the friendly negotiations then pending, Louis might give heed to our king's request. In that case, it might be well, I thought, for Hamilton to leave France at once.

With this urgency in mind, I suggested to Frances and Betty that I cross to Calais alone, regardless of the weather, leaving them at Dover till my return. But they would not be left behind, so we all set sail on a blustery morning and paid for our temerity with a day of suffering. In Calais we posted our letters, having learned that a messenger would leave that same day for Paris, and two days later we returned to Dover.

Our journey home was made in the rain, Bettina sleeping with her head on my shoulder a great part of the way. And I enjoyed the rain even more than I had enjoyed the sunshine.

We reached London nearly a week before the king's return, so that nothing was known of our journey at court.



CHAPTER XI

"ALL SUNSHINE MAKES THE DESERT"

Whatever faults Whitehall may have had as a place of residence, dulness was not among them. There were balls, games with high stakes, theatres, gossip, scandals, and once in a long while an affair of state to interest us. In order to interest the court thoroughly, an affair of state must have involved the getting of money for the privy purse; that is, for the king's personal use, for out of it the courtesans were fed and gambling debts were paid.

The time of our Dover journey was one of extreme depletion in the privy purse. The king had borrowed from every person and every city within the realm who, by threats or cajolery, could be induced to part with money. But now he had reached the end of his tether.

When matters were thus in extremis, some one, probably Castlemain, suggested the sale of England's possessions on the continent, chief of which was the rich city of Dunkirk, situate on the French side of the Straits of Dover. This fortified city, within a few leagues of Calais, had cost the English nation heavily in blood and gold to gain, and still more heavily to hold, but its value to England commercially and politically was beyond measure.

Since Queen Mary had lost Calais, Dunkirk was the only important foothold England had on continental soil; therefore it was almost as dear to the English people as the city of London itself. Because of its importance, it was greatly coveted by the French king, who shortly before the time of our journey to Dover had made overtures to buy it.

Charles turned a deaf ear to King Louis's first proposal to buy Dunkirk, not because he loved the city, or cared a farthing for its value to his people, but because he feared the storm of indignation its sale would raise. The Lord Chancellor objected to the sale of Dunkirk, and tried to show Charles the great folly of entertaining the offer. He was the only wise, honest man in the king's council, and, by reason of his wonderful knowledge of mankind, was called "the Chancellor of Human Nature." But the king needed money, so after a time he listened to Berkeley, Crofts, Castlemain, and others of like character, whose strongest argument consisted in accusing the king, most offensively, of being afraid of his people.

"Are you not king?" asked Castlemain. "Does not Dunkirk belong to you, and may you not sell that which is your property? Are not these dogs, the people, your slaves, your property? Yet you stand in cowardly fear of a rabble which quakes if you but crook your finger. A like fear of his subjects cost your father his head. The people will crawl before you if you kick them, but let them see that you fear them, and you will learn that there is no cruelty like that of the good people."

De Grammont, the French exile, called attention to the French king's successful tyranny, declaring that his master would sell Paris if he chose. De Grammont was acting secretly in the French king's interest.

A weak man easily finds logic to justify the course he desires to take, so Charles turned a deaf ear to Clarendon, and, listening to Castlemain, announced that Dunkirk was for sale. As expected, a strong protest came from the people, but no one is so stubborn as a fool in the wrong, so Charles remained firm in his determination.

Finding that protest would avail nothing, the people of London offered to buy Dunkirk, and began to bid for it against the French king. Louis, knowing that London was a rich city, and believing that its people would run up the price of Dunkirk to an exorbitant figure, took counsel with himself—his only adviser—and determined to employ other means than gold alone to obtain the coveted city.

My first definite knowledge of the French king's new plan to buy Dunkirk at his own price came in a letter from Hamilton, which reached me at Lilly's house two or three weeks after my return from Dover. Like the others, it was written in cipher, but, translated, was as follows:—

DEAR FRIEND:

"Your warning letter reached me nearly a week ago, and I thank you for your watchfulness. I had full information of King Charles's design upon my life from no less a person than Monsieur le Grand himself, who showed me the letter asking that I be returned to England.

"I explained to Monsieur le Grand that the English king sought my life, not because he is in fear of me, but because he thought I stood between him and a lady who despises him. While Monsieur le Grand was much in sympathy with the English king's grievance, his contempt for Charles, his regard for me, which seems to be sincere, and his longing to possess Dunkirk all induced him to laugh at the request, the nature of which he had imparted to no one save me.

"My account of the lady who despised King Charles's love gave Monsieur le Grand a new idea, and suggested a method of purchasing Dunkirk which he hopes will save the heavy cost of bidding against the citizens of London. I had no hint of what he intended till one day he took me to his closet and began to question me.

"'Do you possess the love of the lady who despises King Charles?' he asked.

"'I do, your Majesty,' I answered.

"'Do you know you possess it?' he asked.

"'As well as a man who is not a king may know,' I returned.

"'Tush, tush! Kings are no more certain than other men.'

"'I know I possess this woman's love,' I said.

"'Would she be willing to make a great sacrifice to help you?'

"'Anything that I should ask,' I replied.

"'Ah, I see, I see! Should ask? I take it there are certain sacrifices you would not ask,' returned the king. 'We here in France would say that your position was Quixotic. However, your King Charles is a weak fool, easily imposed upon. Is the lady quick and resourceful in expedients, calm and thoughtful in emergencies, and silent on great occasions?'

"To all of which I answered, 'Yes.'

"'Surely the lady is not La Belle Jennings?' asked the king.

"'Yes,' I replied.

"'In that case you are the very man I want, and your lady-love can help me buy Dunkirk. It is easy to lead a fool to do the wrong thing, and I'm sure La Belle Jennings will find a way to gain her end and ours. If, through her, you induce King Charles to sell Dunkirk to me on my own terms, I'll make you its governor and a rich man. I'll put you in a position to marry this paragon, Mam'selle Jennings, if, as I take it, lack of fortune is all that stands between you. I do not mind telling you now that De Grammont had given me full information concerning the king's view of La Belle Jennings and your relations to her before I wrote my first letter, inviting you to visit me.'

"I am loath to undertake so mean an office as that of inducing King Charles to sell an English city, but I cannot save Dunkirk, and I may profit by helping what I cannot prevent. So I beg you broach the subject to Frances, cautioning her for me to take no risk, and if she is willing to use and to hoodwink the man who would not hesitate to take her life, let me know, and I shall write to you again with further instructions.

"With gratitude,

"Your friend,

"LE BLANC."

I sought Frances, and when I told her the substance of George's letter, she was almost wild with joy.

"Am I willing to try?" she exclaimed, laughing while tears were hanging in her eyes. "I am not only willing to try, but am determined to succeed. Ay, I'd sell England itself in the same cause. Of all the men I have ever known, this king of ours is the greatest dupe. Since the return of the court to Whitehall, he has been growing more importunate every day. He seems to have lost what little wits he had, and does and says the silliest things one can imagine."

"And you do not fear attempting to lead him on to sell Dunkirk? You do not fear going too near the precipice?" I asked, wishing to weigh her self-confidence more by the manner of her reply than by her words.

She laughed and answered: "There is no precipice, cousin Ned; nothing to fear save kidnapping, and I am always guarded against that danger; nothing to do of which I need feel ashamed, save the acting of a lie, and surely one may lie to the father of lies without sin."

"But the lie may be recognized," I suggested, "if one be too bold about it."

"My lie will go little beyond a smile or two. The king's vanity will do the rest. He will make himself believe that I mean more than I say."

Frances and I felt that we were traitors to our country in helping the French king, but we knew that in the end he would buy Dunkirk from our spendthrift monarch, and that out country's loss would be no greater by reason of our gain. Therefore I wrote George as follows:—

"DEAR FRIEND:

"The Duchess of Hearts is eager and confident. Write at once, giving full directions.

"YOUR FRIEND."

Frances added a postscript in cipher, but I shall not translate it.

One morning, some three weeks after sending my letter, Frances came to me in my closet in the Wardrobe, and I saw at once she was in great trouble. Her eyes were red with weeping, and the woebegone expression of her face would have been amusing had I not known that some good cause was back of it. As soon as she entered I saw that she was going to speak, but closets in Whitehall have ears, so I placed my finger on my lips to enjoin silence, and spoke loud enough to be heard if any one was listening:—

"Ah, Frances, I forgot that I had promised to go with you to your father's this morning. Wait for me at Holbein's Gate. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Within the promised time I found Frances at Holbein's Gate, and we walked up to Charing Cross, thence down the Strand toward Temple Bar.

"What is the trouble, Frances?" I asked, anxious to hear her news, which I feared was bad. She was in great distress, and I saw that a flood of tears was ready to accompany her tale of woe, so I said hurriedly: "Don't cry. Laugh while you speak. You will attract less attention."

She tried to laugh, but the effort was piteous and became a failure, as she said:—

"George Hamilton has sailed for Canada, and my heart is broken."

Again she tried to smile, but the smile never reached her eyes, for they were full of tears.

"How do you know?" I asked, almost stunned by the news.

She tried to stay her tears, but failed, and answered between sobs: "Last night at the queen's ball, the king showed me a letter sent by order of the French king, saying that George had sailed from Bordeaux for Canada nearly a fortnight ago. I could not help showing my grief, and the king, who was boisterously happy, said: 'Now you will forget him and listen to me.' I smiled, but it was a poor effort, and he smiled, showing his yellow fangs as he left me. I pray God that I may never be called upon to hate another man as I hate him."

"I can hardly believe that George has gone to Canada without notifying us," I said.

"Yes, I fear it is true," she returned. "But if I am ever so fortunate as to find him again, I intend to go with him whether he consents or no, regardless of father and all the world. Just as soon as I learn where he is in Canada, I will go to him. You will take me, won't you, Baron Ned?"

"I'll not give that promise," I answered. "But I am sure there is something back of King Louis's letter of which we do not know. Surely George would not have sailed without notifying us."

"He may have feared to betray himself by writing," she suggested, "since King Charles had asked King Louis to detain him."

"That is true," I returned. "But the occasion must have been urgent indeed if he could not have sent us word in some manner."

But I could find no comfort for her, for I really believed that George had gone to Canada, and there was a certain relief to me in knowing that he had passed out of Frances's life.

After along silence this feeling of relief found unintentional expression when I said:—

"Time heals all wounds, Frances. One of these days you will find a man who will make amends for your present loss, and then—"

"No, no, Baron Ned. Your words are spoken in kindness, but what you suggest is impossible. Perhaps if there had been fewer obstacles between us, or if I had not misjudged him so cruelly, I might have found my heart more obedient to my will."

The only comfort I could give my beautiful cousin was that a letter would soon come explaining everything. In default of a letter, I promised to go to Paris and learn the truth from George's friends, if possible.

Frances did not go back to Whitehall that day, but remained at home, pretending to be ill of an ague.

At the end of a week, Frances not having returned to Whitehall, Sir Richard was honored by a visit from no less a person than the king, accompanied by the duchess and a gentleman in waiting. The visit was made incognito.

As a result of this royal visit, which was made for the purpose of seeing Frances, a part of Sir Richard's estates near St. Albans were restored to him, and from poverty he rose at once to a comfortable income of, say, a thousand or twelve hundred pounds a year.

Immediately all of Sir Richard's hatred of Charles II fell away, and once more the king shone in the resplendent light of his divine appointment.

While Frances estimated the king's generosity at its true value, she was glad her father had received even a small part of what was his just due, and although she knew the restoration had been made to please, and, if possible, to win her, she was glad to have spoiled the royal Philistine, and despised him more than ever before, if that were possible.

Sir Richard's good fortune brought a gleam of joy to Frances, but it also brought a pang of regret, because it had come too late. Her only purpose in going to Whitehall had been to marry a rich nobleman and thereby raise the fallen fortunes of her house. Now that reason existed no longer, and if George were here, she could throw herself away upon him with injury to no one but herself. But George was not here, and liberty to throw herself away had come too late to be of any value.

Every day during the fortnight that Frances remained at home, she asked if I had any news from court, meaning the French court, but using the form of inquiry to avoid acquainting her father and Sarah with the real cause of her solicitude.

But my answers were always, "Oh, nothing but Castlemain's new tantrum," or "The duke's defeat at pall-mall."

Frances was the last girl in the world, save, perhaps Sarah, who I should have supposed capable of languishing and dying of love, but the former she did before my eyes, and the latter I almost began to fear if news did not reach us soon from George.

Betty came up to see Frances nearly every day, and the kissing and embracing that ensued disgusted Sarah.

"Now, if Frances were a man, I could understand it," said Sarah. "The little barmaid must be tempting to a man, being pretty and—"

"Beautiful, Sarah!" I interrupted.

"Yes, beautiful, if you will."

"Her eyes—" I began, again interrupting Sarah.

"Oh, yes!" cried Sarah, impatiently. "Her eyes are fine enough, but their expression comes from their color, their size, and their preposterously long eyelashes. Black long lashes often give a radiance to the eyes which passes for expressiveness, and I doubt not—"

"Nonsense, Sarah!" I cried, half angrily. "Bettina's eyes are expressive in themselves. As you say, their soft dark brown is the perfection of color, and they certainly are large. But aside from all that, their expression is—"

"There is no intellect in them!" cried Sarah.

"There is tenderness, gentleness, love, and truth in them," I answered, with as careless an air as I could assume.

"Yes, there may be for a man, but I insist there is no real intellect."

"Well, Sarah," I answered, showing irritation despite an effort to appear indifferent, "it is my opinion that the possession of great intellectual power by a woman is the one virtue with which men, as a rule, find themselves most willing to dispense. It gives her too great an advantage."

"Yes, a soft, plump figure like Betty's, long lashes and red lips, surrounded by dimples, are apt to please a fool."

"But they're good in their way, Sarah, you'll admit—excellent!" I retorted sharply, caring little if she saw that I was angry.

"And men are fools, so there! Not another word about the barmaid!" cried Sarah, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand.

But men, too, sometimes like to have the last word, so I remarked: "The mother of the Duchess of York was a barmaid, at least, a barmistress."

"Yes, but is that any reason why Frances should be kissing this one? Doubtless your friend Betty finds men enough to do the office."

"Sarah!" I cried, springing to my feet, now thoroughly angry. "If you were a man, I'd give you the lie direct!"

Sarah began to laugh and clapped her hands, saying: "I was leading you on. I suspected you were fond of her. Now I know it."

But Sarah's remark, being so near the truth, did nothing to allay my anger, so I told her she was a fool, and went into an adjoining room, where I found Frances and Bettina luxuriating in tearful sympathy.

I walked home with Bettina, and she invited me to go to her parlor to have a cup of tea. To see Bettina boil the tea (steep it or draw it, she said was the proper phrase) was as pretty a sight as one could wish to behold, and when she poured it out in thin china cups, handing one to me and taking one herself, her pride in following the fashion of modish ladies was as touching as it was simple and beautiful. It was almost more than my feeble resolutions could withstand, so when I was about to leave I had a great battle with myself and was defeated, for I seized her hands, and although I said nothing, she knew what was in my mind, so she hung her head, murmuring:—

"If you are willing to make me more unhappy than I am."

"Not for the world, Bettina," I answered, rallying against myself. "Goodnight."

"Good night. Now I know you are my friend," she answered softly, holding my hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.

I have refrained from speaking of Mary Hamilton of late, partly because I did not see her frequently at this time, and partly because the shame I felt at the time of which I am now writing comes surging over me whenever I touch upon the subject. Not that I did anything of which I need be ashamed, but because I remember so vividly my motives and desires that the old sensations return, even at this distant day, as a perfume, a strain of music, the soft balminess of spring, or the sharp bite of winter's frost may recall a moment of the past, and set the heart throbbing or still it as of yore.

After leaving Bettina, I went back to Whitehall and dressed for a ball which the queen was giving that night. It was an unfortunate time for me to see Mary. My heart was full, not to overflowing, but to sinking, with my love of Bettina and her love of me. There was nothing I would not have given at that time to be able to take her as my wife. I should have been glad to give my title, estates, and position—everything—to be a simple tradesman or an innkeeper so that I might take Bettina with happiness to her and without the damning sin of losing caste to me.

It was true the king's brother had made a marriage of comparatively the same sort, but it is almost as impossible for a prince to lose caste as it is difficult for a mere baron to keep it. Bettina would not be happy in my sphere of life, nor could I live in hers, so what was there for me to do but to keep my engagement with Mary Hamilton and, if I could, lose my love for Bettina.

* * * * *

The queen's ball was to be held that night at St. James's Palace, and I was glad to have the walk from Whitehall across the park. The night was perfect. A slim moon hung in the west, considerately withholding a part of her light that the stars might twinkle the brighter in their vain effort to rival Bettina's eyes. The night wind came to me, odor-laden from the roses, only to show me how poor a thing it was compared with Bettina's breath upon my cheek and its sweetness in my nostrils. Now and then a belated bird sang its sleepy song, only to remind me of the melody of her lullabies, and the cooing dove moaned out its plaintive call lest I forget the pain in her breast while selfishly remembering the ache in my own. Then I thought of what the Good Book says about "bright clouds," and I prayed that my pain might make me a better man and might lead me to help Bettina in the days of her sorrowing, which I knew were at hand.

Soon after I had kissed the hands of the king and the queen, I met George's brother, Count Anthony Hamilton. He had never been friendly to his younger brother, and had ceased to look upon him as a brother at all after his disgraceful reformation. Then when the king turned against George, Anthony, good courtier that he was, turned likewise, and there is no bitterness that may be compared with that of an apostate brother.

After we had talked for a minute or two, Count Anthony asked if I knew anything of "the fool," as he was pleased to call his brother.

"I know nothing of your brother George, my lord, if it is him you mean."

"He is no brother of mine, and if you wish to become a member of our family, you will cease to consider him your friend," returned his Lordship, making an effort to conceal his anger.

I was not in the mood to take his remark kindly, therefore I answered warmly:—

"Shall my entering the ranks of your noble family curtail my privilege of choosing my own friends?"

"No, with one exception," he replied.

"The honor of the alliance is great, my lord, but I shall not consent to even one exception at your dictation. Your sister, my future wife, loves her brother, and if she does not object to my friendship for him, your Lordship oversteps your authority, as head of your house, by protesting."

He turned angrily upon me, saying: "You have been paying your court with lukewarm ardor of late, Baron Clyde. Perhaps you would not grieve if your friendship for a family outcast were to bar you from the family."

"If your Lordship means to say that I wish to withdraw dishonorably from my engagement with your sister, I crave the privilege of telling you that you lie!"

I never was more calm in my life, and my words brought a cold smile to Hamilton's lips.

"My friend De Grammont will have the honor of waiting on you to-morrow morning," he answered, bowing politely.

"I shall be delighted to see his Grace," I answered. "Good night, my lord!"

Here was a solution of my problem in so far as it concerned my engagement with Mary Hamilton, for if I killed her brother, she would not marry me, and if he killed me, I could not marry her. The fact that a gleam of joy came to me because of my unexpected release caused me to feel that I was a coward not to have broken the engagement in an honorable, straightforward manner rather than to have seized this opportunity to force a duel upon her brother. It is true I had not sought the duel deliberately and had not thought it possible one second before uttering the word that made it necessary. Still it was my act that brought it about, and I felt that I had taken an unmanly course.

After leaving Count Anthony I walked across the room to where Mary was standing at the outer edge of a circle of ladies and gentlemen who surrounded De Grammont, listening to a narrative in broken English, of his adventures, fancied or real, I know not which, but interesting, and all of a questionable character.

When I spoke to Mary, she turned and gave me her hand. I had not expected the least display of emotion on her part; therefore I was not disappointed when the smile with which she greeted me was the same she would have given to any other man. But Mary was Mary. Nature and art had made her what she was—charming, quiescent, and calm, not cold, simply lukewarm.

"I have seen little of you this last month," said Mary, taking my arm and walking with me away from De Grammont's group. She might have remarked with equal emotion that Cromwell was dead or the weather fine. She did not wait for an explanation of my absence, but continued with a touch of eager hesitancy and a fluttering show of anxiety, "Have you had news recently of my brother George?"

Of course I could not tell her the truth, so I answered evasively: "I suppose you have heard the news spread throughout the court that he has gone to Canada? Doubtless you can tell me more than I know."

"That is all I know," she answered. "When he went, or where, I have been unable to learn, for George is a forbidden topic in our household and seems to be the same at court. What has he done, baron? I have heard it hinted that he threatened to take the king's life. Surely he did nothing of the sort."

"If he did, it was in a delirium of fever," I answered, hoping that she would cease speaking of George and would ask a question or two concerning myself.

But no. She turned again to me, asking, "Did you hear him?"

"I have been told that the accusation comes from his physician, and perhaps from one who was listening at his door," I answered, avoiding a direct reply.

"I suspect the informant is a wretched little hussy of whom I have heard—the daughter of the innkeeper," remarked Mary, looking up to me for confirmation.

"Suspect no longer," I answered, with sharper emphasis than I should have used.

"Do you know her?" she asked.

"I do not know a 'wretched hussy' who is the daughter of the innkeeper," I answered sullenly. "I know a beautiful girl who watched devotedly at your brother's bedside, day and night, and probably saved his life at a time when he was deserted by his sisters and his mother."

"We often find that sort of kindness in those low creatures," she answered, unaware of the tender spot she was touching, and ignoring my reference to George's sisters and his mother.

Naturally Mary was kind of heart, but her mother was a hard, painted old Jezebel, whose teachings would have led her daughter away from every gentle truth and up to all that was hard, cruel, and selfish in life. A woman in the higher walks of life is liable to become enamelled before her twentieth year.

While I did not blame Mary for what she had said relating to Bettina, still I was angry and longed to do battle with any one who could fight.

After we had been together perhaps ten minutes, some one claimed her for a dance, and she left me, saying hurriedly in my ear:—

"I'll see you soon again. I want to ask you further about George." She had not a question to ask about me.

She was not to see me again, for I asked permission of the queen to withdraw, and immediately left the ball.

While I was crossing the park on my way back to Whitehall, the wind moaned and groaned—it did not breathe. The stars did not twinkle—they glared. The nightingales did not sing—they screamed. And the roses were odorless. Perhaps all this change to gloom was within me rather than without, but it existed just the same, and I went home and to bed, hating all the world save Bettina, whom I vowed for the hundredth time never to see again.

The next day at noon De Grammont came to my closet, where I had waited for him all morning.

"Welcome to you, dear count!" I cried, leading him by the hand to a chair.

"Perhaps you will not so warmly welcome me," he returned, "when you learn my errand."

"I already know your errand, Count Grammont, and it makes you doubly welcome," I answered, drawing a chair for myself and sitting down in front of him.

"Ah, that is of good," he returned, rubbing his hands. "You already know the purpose of my visit?"

"Yes, I do, my dear count, but any purpose would delight me which brings the pleasure of your company."

"Ah, it is said like a civilized man," he returned, complimenting me by speaking English, though I shall not attempt to reproduce his pronunciation. "How far better it is to say: 'Monsieur, permit to me,' before one runs a man through than to do it as though one were sticking a mere pig. Is it not so?"

"True as sunshine, my dear count," I returned. "There's a vast difference between the trade of butchering and the gentle art of murder."

De Grammont threw back his head, laughing softly. "Ah, good, good! Very good, dear baron! The sentiment is beau-ti-ful and could not be better expressed—in English. You should have been born across the channel."

"I wish I had been born any place, not excepting hell, rather than in England," I answered.

"True, true, what a hole it is," returned the count, regretfully. "The Englishman is one pig."

He saw by the expression of my face that while I might abuse my own countrymen, I did not relish hearing it from others, so with true French tact he held up his hand to keep me from speaking till he could correct himself.

"Pardon, baron, I forgot the 'r,' The Englishman's affectation of a virtue he despises makes of him a prig—not a pig. Non, non! Mon Dieu! Not a pig—a prig! Is it not so?"

"True, true, count," I returned, unable to restrain a laugh. "It is the affectation of virtue that makes frank vice attractive by comparison."

"Ah, true, true, my dear baron. May I proceed with my errand?"

"Proceed, count."

"Monsieur le Comte Hamilton begs me to say that he was called away from London early to-day on the king's business, but that he will return in four weeks. When he returns he will do himself the honor to send me again, asking you to name a friend, unless you prefer to apologize, which no gentleman would do in a case of this sort. You said, I am told, that Monsieur le Comte lied. If you admit that he did not lie, of course you admit that you did. So, im-pos-si-ble! There must be to fight!"

"Do you know, count, the cause of my having given Count Hamilton the lie?" I asked.

"I did not inquire," he answered smilingly. "To me it was to carry the message."

"George Hamilton is your friend, is he not?" I asked.

"Yes, but far more, he is the friend of my king, and will make entreaty with my monarch for my return to France," answered De Grammont.

"It was because of Count Hamilton's insulting reference to his brother that I used the ugly word," I returned.

"A-ah, that is different!" Then recovering himself quickly: "But I undertook the mission. It is to finish. Monsieur George Hamilton? My friend? My king's friend? If it had been known to me! But you have the message of 'Sieur le Comte."

After a short silence he said, "When Monsieur le Comte Hamilton returns, I shall ask him to relieve me of this duty."

As De Grammont was leaving my closet, he paused at the door, and, after a moment's hesitancy, whispered:—

"You may expect a letter from France soon. It will come from M. l'Abbe du Boise, who I hope will come soon to London on the business of my king. You know him not—M. l'Abbe?" The eyebrows lifted questioningly. "No? You soon will know him, yet you will not know him. You and perhaps a lady may help him in his mission. I, too, shall help him, but I, too, know him not. Yet I know him. If he succeed in his mission, he will be rich, he will be powerful. And I? Mon Dieu, my friend! If he succeed, my decree of banishment from Paris—it will be to revoke. I may return once more to bask in the smile of my king. You must not speak; the lady must not speak; I must not speak when Monsieur l'Abbe comes, nor before. It is to silence. Stone walls have one ear."

"Two, sometimes, count," I suggested, laughing.

"Yes, I should have said one ears! Non, non! I forget this damnable tongue of yours! When I arrive to great interest, it is to talk faster than it is to think, and—" A shrug of the shoulders finished the sentence.

"Let us speak French hereafter, my dear count," I suggested.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! It is to me more of pain to hear my sweet language murdered than to murder yours," answered Grammont, seriously.

"Ah, but I speak French quite as well as I speak English. Perhaps I shall not murder it," I replied.

"Perhaps? We shall try," he said, though with little show of faith.

I began speaking French, but when I paused for his verdict, he shrugged his shoulders, saying:—

"Ah, oui, oui! It may be better than my English." But notwithstanding his scant praise, we spoke the French language thereafter.

The count bowed himself out and left me to decipher, if I could, the problem of M. l'Abbe du Boise. Presently I discovered the cue. The Abbe was George Hamilton, and for the moment my heart almost stopped beating. If he should come to England on the French king's business, which could be nothing more nor less than the Dunkirk affair, and should be discovered, there would be a public entertainment on Tyburn Hill, with George as the central figure.

When I found a spare hour, I hastened to see Lilly and came upon the good Doctor among the stars, as usual. There was a letter for me from Hamilton. It was short and in cipher:—

"DEAR FRIEND:

"This is to tell you that M. l'Abbe du Boise will soon be in London. He will be the guest of M. Comte de Grammont.

"You do not know him. Please call on him when he arrives. Tell the Duchess of Hearts that he will want to see her. Ask her to be ready to help him. He goes to buy Dunkirk for the French king, and his success will mean good fortune for me.

"Your friend,

"LE BLANC."

After reading the letter, I felt sure that the Abbe du Boise was George Hamilton. I could hardly bring myself to believe that he would be so foolhardy as to visit Whitehall, though I knew the adventure was of a nature likely to appeal to his reckless disregard of consequences. I knew also that, if successful, he would win the reward without which life had little value to him.

I was sure that Hamilton had fully weighed the danger of his perilous mission, and that he was deliberately staking his life on a last desperate chance to win fortune and Frances Jennings.

Though perhaps Lilly was a charlatan in many respects, he was to be trusted; still I did not feel that it was my place to impart George's secret to him, though I had in mind a plan whereby he might be of great help to the Abbe du Boise in influencing King Charles. The king consulted him secretly in many important affairs, and I was sure that if the good Doctor should be called in by his Majesty in the Dunkirk affair, the stars would tell a story in accord with our desires if we made it to Lilly's interest.

However, all of that must wait for the Abbe du Boise. Of one thing I was sure; I must tell Frances at once so that she might be paving the way to the king with her smiles. It would be a disagreeable task, but I knew she would do it gladly, and I also knew that no woman could do it better.

While I had expressed my doubts to Frances concerning Hamilton's emigration to Canada, I had not felt entirely sure there was nothing in it, and she, womanlike, taking the worst for granted, had accepted it as true. But the coming of the Abbe du Boise changed everything, and when I saw her at her father's house and told her of my suspicions, and showed her Le Blanc's letter, she was so greatly alarmed that she said she would rather know that George had gone to Canada than to fear his return to England under the circumstances.

"The dastardly king will take his life if he comes," she said.

"I admit the danger," I answered, as hopefully as possible, "but I believe, if George comes, he will be able to take care of himself."

"Danger!" she exclaimed. "It is certain death! George will find no mercy."

"If he is caught," I answered. "But the letter from King Louis will convince King Charles that Hamilton is in Canada and will throw our jealous monarch off his guard. Perhaps Hamilton will be safer than we suppose. He speaks French like a Parisian, but, above all, he is cool, calm, and thoughtful in danger. The London merchants will be far more dangerous than the king."

"It does seem that we are guilty of treason to our country in thus helping France," she said. Then laughingly, "But I'll go back to the palace at once and begin my task of wheedling the king." She paused for a moment, then continued hesitatingly, "Do you suppose it possible that George would doubt me afterwards?"

"Impossible," I answered, with emphasis that seemed to reassure her.

"I am doing it for him," she continued with a sigh. "God knows I would do almost anything in the same cause. But I do not know men, and I fear it is possible that he will doubt me after I have succeeded. Let us go to see Betty. She is restful to me, and always soothes my nerves. But besides, I want to have her help. I'll introduce her to the king—"

"No, by God, you'll not introduce her to the king! I'll explode the whole affair, and Dunkirk may go to the devil before you shall introduce Betty to the king," I answered.

"Yet you are willing that I should meddle in the dangerous affair? Evidently you love her more than you love me?"

"Only a few hundred million times more," I answered sullenly.

"Is it that way with you, my dear brother?" she asked, coming to me as I stood gazing out the window, seeing nothing save Bettina's face. Frances put her hand on my shoulder and said coaxingly: "Forgive me. No harm shall come to her through me."

Of course I was sorry that I had allowed myself to become angry, and at once made my apology as well as I could.

"Let us go to see Betty, anyway," said Frances. And I assenting, she went to fetch her cloak, hat, and vizard.

But when she returned, I had changed my mind and declined to go, telling Frances that I must see Bettina no more.

"Why?" asked Frances.

"Because I would not win a love from her which I cannot accept."

"Baron Ned, there are few men who would be so considerate."

But I required little coaxing, and when Frances had made ready for the journey, I buckled on my sword, which I had left standing in the corner, took my hat from the floor, and started out with her.

While walking from the Bridge to the Old Swan, I remarked to Frances, "My engagement with Mary Hamilton is likely to be broken by her family."

"Why, Baron Ned?" she asked in surprise.

"Count Hamilton has challenged me to a duel, to be fought when he returns, and you see, if I kill him or if he kills me, well—" I answered, shrugging my shoulders.

She was much alarmed at my disclosure, but was reassured when I made light of the affair, probably because there was no danger in it to George Hamilton, and, perhaps, because if I should kill Count Hamilton, George would inherit the title and estates.

"But poor Mary! She will grieve," said Frances.

"I think you need waste no tears for her sake," I answered. "She is a fine, pretty little creature, who will take what comes her way without excess of pain or joy. She is incapable of feeling keenly. God has been good to her in giving her numbness."

"No, no, cousin Ned, you are wrong!" she returned. "Life without pain is not worth living. I have heard that the Arabs have a saying, 'All sunshine makes the desert.' God is good to us when he darkens the sun now and then and gives us the sunshine afterwards."

"Perhaps you are right, Frances," I returned. "But you and I are in the cloud now, and a little sunshine would be most welcome."

"Not enough sunshine to make a desert," she answered.

"Ay! But enough to make a garden," I returned, as we climbed the narrow flight of steps leading to the private entrance to the Old Swan.

When we paused at the door, Frances said, "Your garden is at hand." And when she opened the door, there stood Betty, and I was in Eden. The moist glow of her eyes, the faint blush of her cheeks, the nervous fluttering of her voice, spoke more eloquently than all the tongues of Babel could have spoken, and I could not help comparing her welcome with that which Maxy Hamilton had given me at the queen's ball.

Bettina led us to the parlor, and while we were drinking a cup of tea, we had the great pleasure of asking and answering questions of which we always had a large supply in reserve.

When it was time to go, Bettina walked down to the Bridge with us. As it was growing dark, Frances suggested that I walk back to the Old Swan with Betty, which I did, she taking my arm of her own accord, and both of us very happy, though we spoke not a word, for fear of saying too much, save "good night" at the door.

"Good night at the door!" God gave its sweetness to youth right out of the core of His infinite love.



CHAPTER XII

A PERILOUS EMBASSY

Four or five days after our visit to Bettina, I met De Grammont at Charing Cross, and he surprised me with an invitation to his house that night to meet Monsieur l'Abbe du Boise at supper.

"The king and a dozen other gentlemen will be present," he said, "but there will be no ladies. Monsieur l'Abbe, being of the church, is not a ladies' man, and besides, ladies have sharper eyes than men, and might see much that is intended to remain unseen."

The count's remark seemed to settle the question of the Abbe's identity, and I hastened to Frances with the news. She assured me that she was ready to die of fright, but showed no outward sign of dissolution, and when I complimented her on her power of self-control, said:—

"Fortunately, I am part hypocrite, and can easily act a part."

"You have a hard one ahead of you," I returned, "and will need all your strength before it is played to the end."

* * * * *

I was on hand early at De Grammont's supper, but found several gentlemen ahead of me, awaiting, with the count in his parlor, the arrival of the king. Soon after I entered the room, De Grammont presented me to the Abbe. I was convinced at once that he was not George Hamilton. His beard, worn a la Richelieu,—a mustache and a tuft on the chin,—was snow white, and his hair, which was thin, hung in long white waves almost to his shoulders. He walked with a stoop and wore spectacles, the glasses of which were slightly colored. Being an ecclesiastic, though not a priest, he wore no wig; but he was of the Order of the Cordon Bleu, and wore, in addition to his badge and blue ribbon, a sword beneath his long coat. It was the first time I had ever seen an ecclesiastic wearing a sword, though it has since become common in France, where there are many "Abbes" who are neither priests nor in orders.

The Abbe spoke poor English, therefore the conversation was carried on in French, much to the annoyance of some of our guests, who pretended to a greater knowledge of that language than they possessed.

Soon after my presentation to the Abbe, the king arrived, and we all went out to the supper table, where the Abbe's chair was on the king's right, with De Grammont on his Majesty's left. After the king had been seated a moment, he rose and asked us to be seated; so we took our places, all save the king dropping our hats beside us on the floor because of his Majesty's presence.

I sat next to De Grammont, almost opposite the Abbe, and had a good opportunity to observe the French emissary. The king's French was excellent, and the dinner conversation was carried on largely between him and the Abbe. All subjects were discussed, but the Abbe adroitly avoided Dunkirk and seemed to prefer talking on religious and philosophical topics, in which he took the liberty to disagree with the king in many respects, politely though positively.

I listened attentively, hoping that some tone of the Abbe's voice, a pose or a gesture, might reveal George Hamilton, if it were he, in the most excellent disguise I had ever seen. But nothing of the sort occurred, and before the dinner was over, I was still more convinced that whoever the Abbe du Boise might be, he was not Hamilton.

After dinner came the heavy wines, of which the Abbe did not partake, and of which De Grammont and I drank sparingly. All the others, including the king, were gloriously drunk long before the night was over.

While smoking our pipes, the king, who was eager to get his hands on French money, told the Abbe that he hoped to see him, with his credentials, at Whitehall on the second morning following at ten o'clock, and the Abbe said he would leave his credentials with my Lord Clarendon, and would be at Whitehall at the hour suggested by the king, for the purpose of making the French king's offer.

Most of the guests went home between two men, very late at night, but fortunately I was able to walk home by myself.

I was both glad and disappointed not to find George in the gown of the Abbe. I was glad because of the risk he would have taken had he come to England, yet disappointed in missing what would have been the most picturesque, daring personal exploit of English court history. But on the whole it was better as it was.

The next morning the king sent for me to come to his closet, and asked if I knew one Lilly, an astrologer. I answered that I knew little of him personally, but had heard much of his wisdom and learning.

"Yes, yes, but you know where he lives, do you not? On the Strand, a dozen houses this side of Temple Bar?" asked the king.

"I have seen the house often, your Majesty," I replied.

"Good! Now listen attentively to what I have to say," returned the king, graciously taking my arm and leading me to a window overlooking the river. "I hear from De Grammont that the Abbe du Boise is a firm believer in the teachings of astrology. I want you to arrange, without letting any one know that my finger is in the pie, to take Lilly to see the Abbe, or the Abbe to see Lilly. I'll whisper a word in your ear. The stars will tell our friend, the Abbe, a story to suit our purposes. The French king and his ambassadors will find their match in me, I warrant you. I have bought Lilly, body and soul—with promises." The king shrugged his shoulders and whispered: "With promises, you understand, Baron Ned, with promises. Now give him a chance at the Abbe."

Charles laughed and chuckled in self-gratulation, not the least suspecting that he was talking to the wrong man and playing into the French king's hand. I bore in mind the fact that the king had bought Lilly with promises, and I determined to buy the good Doctor with ready gold.

"I'll try to carry out your Majesty's commands," I answered, apparently doubtful of my ability. "But of course you would not have me insist, if the Abbe seems disinclined to consult Lilly."

"No, no! Odds fish, man, no! But find a way to bring them together, and your reward will come later. I choose, you for this little piece of business because you are in no way connected with the affair between the French king and me, and because I know you are to be trusted."

I to be trusted! So was Brutus!

"I shall do my best, your Majesty, and if I fail, I shall notify you at once," I said, taking my leave.

I hastened to De Grammont's house, which at that time was over near the Mall, and told the count what the king had said.

"Ah, that is good!" cried De Grammont. "A fool, who knows himself to be a fool, is likely to be wary, but one who deems himself wise is the easiest dupe in the world. I'll see Monsieur l'Abbe. Wait."

De Grammont returned in a few minutes, saying that the Abbe would go with me to see Doctor Lilly, and I suggested that I return for him in three hours.

I went back to Whitehall, where I found Frances, and told her to be at Lilly's house on the Strand within three hours, to meet the French king's ambassador, and to receive the instructions which George's letter had intimated the Abbe would give. I told her, also, that the Abbe was not the person we had expected to see.

The evening before, she was ready to die of fright because we believed that the Abbe was George Hamilton, and now, since I had found he was not, she was ready to die of disappointment—so she assured me.

At the appointed time, De Grammont, the Abbe, and I took the count's barge and went down to the water stairs nearest Temple Bar, where the Abbe and I left De Grammont and walked up through the crowded streets to Lilly's house. Owing to the crowded condition of the street, the Abbe and I found no opportunity to exchange words until we were before Lilly's house.

Lilly was at home, I having sent word of our coming, so when we knocked, the servant opened and directed us to the waiting parlor, saying that the Doctor would soon come down.

We started upstairs, I in the lead, the Abbe following ten paces behind. When I entered the room, I found Bettina and Frances sitting by the street window. They came to me quickly, and Frances explained Bettina's presence.

"I did not like to come here alone, so I asked Betty to come with me. She is to be trusted."

"You need not assure me of that," I answered, taking Betty's hand. "I already know it. I am glad you—"

But here I was interrupted by a soft cry from Bettina, and by a half-smothered scream from Frances, both of whom deserted me suddenly and ran toward the door I had just entered. Turning, I saw Frances with her arms about the Abbe's neck, and Bettina clasping one of his hands. I thought the two had gone mad, but when Bettina saw my look of surprise and inquiry, she dropped his hand, came to me, and asked:—

"Did you want us to pretend that we did not know him? If so, you should have told us."

"But you don't know him," I declared.

"Perhaps I don't," she returned, laughing softly and shrugging her shoulders, "but evidently your cousin does. If not, she should take her arms from around his neck."

"But she is mistaken," I insisted.

"She seems to be convinced," answered Bettina, with a curious little glance up to me, half laughing, half inquiring. Evidently she was doubtful whether I spoke in jest or in earnest.

Frances still clung to the Abbe, her head resting on his shoulder, so I started toward her, intending to correct her mistake. Bettina, seeing my purpose, caught me by the arm, saying:—

"Don't you really know?"

The Abbe turned his face toward me, and when I caught a glimpse of his eyes without spectacles, I recognized George Hamilton, and almost choked myself in smothering a cry.

Frances turned to me, asking indignantly, "Why did not you tell me?"

"Because I did not know," I answered, hardly able to believe the truth.

But we had important business before us, and I knew that we should prepare for it before Lilly came in. So George, Bettina, Frances, and I went to a window at the far end of the room to hold a consultation.

"Since I did not recognize you, perhaps Lilly will not," I suggested. "I trust the Doctor, but perhaps we had better leave him under the impression that you are Monsieur l'Abbe du Boise and give no intimation of the truth."

"I had not hoped that my disguise would deceive you, Baron Ned," said George, "but since it has, it is just as well that we leave Lilly in the dark if we can."

"But he will know. The stars will tell him," suggested Bettina, opening her eyes very wide.

"The stars will tell him what he is paid to hear," I remarked. Then turning to Frances, I asked, "How is it that you were able to recognize him?"

"By his eyes!" exclaimed Frances and Bettina in concert.

"That gives me a valuable hint," said George, hastily adjusting his colored spectacles. "Now, how about it?"

"I still should know you," answered Frances.

"Not I!" exclaimed Bettina.

Presently Lilly came in, and I presented him to Monsieur l'Abbe du Boise and explained the presence of Frances and Bettina by saying:—

"A friend of ours in France has asked Mistress Jennings to render what aid she can to Monsieur l'Abbe, and she is here at my request to receive his commands."

"It is good!" exclaimed Lilly. "She has the king's ear if any one has, and the ear is very close to the mind. What may I do to serve Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"If I may see you privately—-the baron and me—I shall tell you how you may serve me," answered the Abbe.

The Abbe and I excused ourselves to Frances and Bettina, and went with the Doctor to the room which he called his observatory, where we came to the point very quickly:—

"I want to buy Dunkirk for my master for the sum of one hundred thousand pounds," said the Abbe, by way of starting the consultation.

"But London has already offered that sum," returned Lilly, "and stands ready to pay more."

"In payments," suggested the Abbe.

"Yes," returned Lilly. "But I see no way of bringing the king to accept the sum you offer unless—unless Mistress Jennings can persuade him."

"She may be able to do so," answered the Abbe, shrugging his shoulders. He spoke very bad English throughout the consultation. "But the stars, too, may be very persuasive with King Charles. To be plain, he will probably consult you, and if—"

"I am to see him to-night. That is why your visit was postponed until to-morrow," interrupted Lilly.

"That is as I supposed," remarked the Abbe. "Now, if I buy Dunkirk for one hundred thousand pounds, you shall receive two thousand pounds within ten days after signing the treaty, and Baron Clyde will be my surety."

"Two thousand pounds?" mused Lilly. "That is rather a small sum in so great a transaction."

"I doubt not the purchase may be made without the help of the stars if you feel that two thousand pounds is too small a sum to be considered," returned the Abbe.

"No, no," said Lilly. "I understand that you wish me to set a figure and work out the solution of this affair, and if I learn from the stars that it is to King Charles's interest to accept your offer of one hundred thousand pounds for the city of Dunkirk, I am to receive—"

"If King Charles accepts!" interrupted the Abbe.

"Ah, I see! Yes, yes, of course," returned Lilly. "I shall go to work immediately and set my figure. Of course I do not know what I shall learn, but I shall be glad to learn from the stars that which will enable me to advise the king according to your wishes. Two thousand pounds are two thousand pounds, and the word of a king is but a breath."

"What will the king give you for setting the figure and working it out? What does he usually pay you in important affairs?" asked the Abbe.

"Ah—eh—I—I—In truth," returned Lilly, stammering, "the king, who is so liberal with his lady friends, is—what shall I say?—close with me, save in promises. He buys folly at the rate of hundreds of thousands of pounds a year, while he pays for knowledge with large promises, and now ten shillings and again five. On one occasion I assured him that he would not fail if he attempted to put through a much-cherished plan of carrying a lady to the country against her will. He was much pleased and gave me a guinea, but borrowed it a week afterward, and—and still owes it."

George turned quickly to me, but, remembering that he was the Abbe du Boise, said nothing. But I caught his meaning and, turning to Lilly, asked:—

"Do you refer to the occasion of a certain kidnapping in which Hamilton and I consulted you?"

"Yes," returned Lilly.

"And you allowed it to be carried out without telling us?" I asked indignantly.

"I did not know who the lady was till you came to me for help," he answered.

"And you were able to put us on the right track to find her because of knowledge gained from the stars?" I asked, with a sharp note of sarcasm.

"No, no," he replied coolly. "Why trouble the stars for information that may be had as easily and more definitely elsewhere?"

"Then why did you not tell us the true source of your knowledge?" I asked warmly.

"Because I had neither right nor desire to betray the person most actively engaged in the affair. To have done so might have cost me my life. I gave you the information you asked, and you saved the lady through my help, without which you would not have known where to turn. You would have been helpless. You paid me ten guineas. Were my services worth the fee?"

"Ah, richly," I returned, beginning to see the whole matter of astrology in a new light.

"Then why do you complain?" he asked. "A man, naturally, wants to know where his meat comes from, but knowledge, like a diamond, is good found anywhere."

"I beg your pardon, Doctor Lilly," I answered, waving my hand as a substitute for hauling down my colors. "I turn you over to Monsieur l'Abbe once more."

"I think we understand each other," remarked the Abbe. "You say the king has employed you to set a figure, and that you are to take the solution to him to-night?"

"Monsieur l'Abbe is correct," returned Lilly.

"I hope the stars may see fit to advise the king to accept my first offer, for it will be the last," said the Abbe. "Possibly the stars may show that in case King Charles sells Dunkirk to London even for a much larger sum than I shall offer, he may be compelled to spend the money and a great deal more in defending the city."

"True, true," agreed Lilly.

"Possibly the stars may indicate that King Louis loves war," continued the Abbe. "They may show that if King Charles refuses my master's offer, England may be compelled to give up Dunkirk for nothing, or spend a vast deal of money and blood in defending it. If the French king lays siege to Dunkirk, the English people will force King Charles to take one of two courses—defence or abdication. In the latter case he might lose his head, as his father did before him. Furthermore, if King Charles refuses my first offer, my master will withdraw, in which case London also will withdraw. Is it not possible that the stars may tell you all this?"

"The conditions you suggest are so probable that one hardly need ask confirmation of the stars, and so reasonably to be expected are the events you predict that, beyond question, stellar revelation will be in accord with your desires. But the stars will say what they will say, and I shall give King Charles the truth from whatever source it comes," said Lilly, lifting his head in righteousness and posing as the embodiment of truth.

"That is all I can ask," returned the Abbe, rising to close the interview.

"All exceedingly reasonable—reasonable," answered Lilly, bowing.

We returned to the parlor, where we found Frances and Bettina awaiting us, not patiently, if I could judge by their looks. I asked Lilly to allow us to occupy the room undisturbed for an hour while the Abbe gave certain instructions to Frances, but the Doctor did better for us. He took us to a room enclosed in glass on the roof of his house, where we could be by ourselves with the sun and the sky overhead, and all London beneath us.

To this day I am not sure that Lilly did not know Hamilton, but if he did, he concealed his knowledge completely, feeling, doubtless, that it would be a dangerous bit of information to himself and of no benefit to any one else. If George should be discovered by the king, Lilly could honestly disclaim knowing him. If affairs turned to our desire, the Doctor could lose nothing by his ignorance whether pretended or real. So I doubt not he thanked us for the imposture, if he discovered it.

It is needless to say that Bettina, Frances, George, and I were very pleased to be together once more. We spent a delightful hour in Lilly's observatory, where we made our plans for the following day, which will unfold in the order of their occurrence. A great deal of the time we were all talking at once, but for some strange reason we were all silent when George said laughingly, though nervously, that the French king had sent word to Frances that we would pay her ten thousand pounds if George's mission proved successful.

Having anticipated the possible necessity for quick action at the proper time, George had brought with him two copies of a treaty, written in Latin. He brought also plenary authority from the French king, under the great Seal of France, authorizing Monsieur l'Abbe du Boise to sign, execute, and deliver the treaty on the part of France and to receive in return the treaty to be executed by the English king. He also bore authority to make and deliver to King Charles a bill of exchange on Backwell, the goldsmith, for the purchase money of Dunkirk. Thus all would be ready for immediate conclusion the moment King Charles accepted the French king's offer.

That night near the hour of one o'clock, Lilly called by appointment to see me at De Grammont's house, coming from Whitehall, where he had been closeted with the king for three or four hours, explaining to his Majesty the message of the stars as read by the light of two thousand pounds.

"I explained to his Majesty," said Lilly, "that in all my calculations and observations, Mars intruded with alarming persistency in conjunction with King Louis's star. I tried to show him that the recurrences of this untoward conjunction were so rapid and constant as to denote war at a very early date if conditions were not affected at once by the intervention of the messenger, Mercury, whose sign fortunately accompanied each unfortuitous conjunction. The king, though pretending to be learned in the noble art of astrology, asked me to translate my solution, and I did so, almost in the words of Monsieur l'Abbe this afternoon."

"Thank you," remarked George.

"No, no, do not thank me," said Lilly, disclaiming all credit. "What Monsieur said was so reasonable and fitted so aptly to the probable conditions of the future, read in the terrestrial light of the present, sound reason, that it was hardly necessary to ask the stars. But in compliance with the king's request, I set my figure and found, as usual, that the revelations of the stars coincided with the dictates of reason. It is true the stars sometimes forecast events which seem almost impossible in view of present conditions, but the questioner of the heavens who does not use his reason to help his interpretation of the stars is, to say the least, far from wise."

"Yes," interrupted the Abbe. "But come to the point! What did the king say?"

"He did not entirely accept the message of the stars," returned Lilly. "He does not seem to object to war. He says there is no time when it is as easy to raise money from the people as in times of war. I suggested that money in the nation's treasury was not in the privy purse, where the king most wants it. But he said it was only a short journey from the treasury to the privy purse, and—well, I agreed with him. If you want to convert a vain, stubborn fool to your way of thinking, don't let him know what your way is."

"So the stars have failed?" asked the Abbe.

"No," returned Lilly, "they have put the king to thinking, but more, they have sowed the seeds of fear, a plant which grows rapidly in a coward's heart by night."

"But not rapidly enough to suit our purposes, I fear," returned the Abbe.

"Yes," insisted Lilly. "If the king's inclination can be changed, fear will sweep aside all other considerations in a moment, and he will accept the one hundred thousand pounds which you will offer to-morrow morning. But in case the king does conclude to accept the French king's offer, the iron will at once take on a white heat, and—well, iron remains at white heat only a short time. You must be ready to act quickly when the proper moment comes, or London will spring between you and the king."

"I shall be ready," returned the Abbe. "The king shall be inclined to our proposition before another day is past."

"Shall I tell you what the stars predict concerning the signing of the treaty?" asked Lilly.

"Yes, yes," I answered eagerly.

"I have found Venus in conjunction with—" began Lilly.

"Oh, damn the stars!" cried the Abbe, most uncanonically. "Tell me what you think about it!"

"The stars tell me that the treaty will be signed to-morrow night—that is, to-night, this being the early morning," answered the Doctor, persistently maintaining his attitude of stellar interpreter.

"Very well. Good night, Doctor," said the Abbe. "And may the shadow of your discretion never grow less."

A moment later I conducted Lilly to the door, and when I returned to De Grammont, who had not spoken a word during the entire interview, he shrugged his shoulders and said:—

"Sacrament! What a wise man a fool may be! It is to admire!"

"I doubt if any man is beneficially wise unless he be in part a fool," said the Abbe, and I closed the symposium by remarking:—

"Folly tinctures wisdom with common sense, illumines it with imagination, and gives it everyday usefulness. But best of all, it helps a man to understand the motives of other fools who constitute the bulk of mankind."

"Ah, baron," said De Grammont, yawning. "It is all doubtless true. Who would have expected to find so much cynical wisdom in an Englishman? But let us to bed!"

Hamilton and I were up by five o'clock the next morning, in consultation. He was for dropping the matter in so far as it involved Frances, but I insisted that while it was a disagreeable task for her, she was wise with a woman's wisdom, calm with a woman's calmness, and bold with a woman's boldness, which knows no equal when the motive springs from the heart rather than the head.

We discussed the matter in all its phases, and then I went to the palace to see Frances. When she arose, I was waiting to tell her that the Abbe would see the king at ten o'clock and to ask her to wait in the anteroom of the duchess's parlor. If Charles accepted the French king's offer, I should pass by her wearing my hat, and she would know that her help would not be needed. If the king refused, I should carry my hat in my hand, and she could take her own course with Charles.

"Do you fear?" I asked, being myself very much afraid, for we were dealing with an absolute monarch, devoid of conscience, devoid of caution save when prompted by cowardice, but plenteously imbued with venom in his heart and all things evil in his soul.

"I fear?" cried Frances, tossing her head defiantly.

I thought surely no woman ever was as beautiful as this one, in whose heart there was no fear, no doubt of self, no faltering in the face of danger. I asked her to tell me of her plans, and she answered:—

"I have no plan save to see the king. Then the plans will come of themselves."



CHAPTER XIII

FRANCES DELIVERS THE TREATY

George went to the Shield Gallery in Whitehall at ten o'clock the next morning, where he found his Majesty, the Lord Chancellor, and a half score of the king's creatures, including Berkeley, Wentworth, Crofts, Jermyn, and others of like quality.

These were the men with whom George had to deal. He was known intimately to each of them, and was hated most heartily by all save the Chancellor.

When George entered the Gallery, the king took his seat in a great chair of state on a dais at one end of the room, while his counsellors ranged themselves on either side. I, with a dozen other gentlemen, had been commanded to be present, not as advisers, but as attendants on the king to give dignity to the occasion.

George, having been sent to England secretly, had brought no retinue, since it was desired by every one connected with the affair that his presence should attract as little attention as possible and thus avoid alarming London. When George went to Whitehall, he was accompanied only by De Grammont and a gentleman of the count's household.

While George knelt before his Majesty, asking leave to speak for the French king, his master, I could not help thinking of the strange contiguity of antagonisms so frequently observed in one's journey through this life, nor could I help wondering what would be the fate of the bold man kneeling before the king if his Majesty could but see through the Abbe's disguise.

But I had little time for reflection, since George was not one who allowed matters to drag. On receiving permission to speak, he rose and went to the point at once in badly broken English, which I shall not try to reproduce.

"I shall not take up your Majesty's time with idle words," said the Abbe, glancing at a written memorandum which he held in his hand. "My master, King Louis, sends greeting to his royal brother, and hopes that no cause of difference may ever arise to darken the blue sky of peace that now hangs over two kings, potent as are your Majesty and my master, and two nations, happy, rich, and powerful as are the noble realms of France and England. Believing the possession by either monarch of cities or territory within the other's realm to be a constant menace to this much-desired peace and amity, my master, the king of France, sends me, his humble ambassador, with plenary authority, the instrument of which now lies with your Majesty's noble Lord Chancellor, to make offer to your Majesty of the great sum of one hundred thousand pounds for the good city of Dunkirk, which is on territory contiguous to my master's domain."

"The great sum of one hundred thousand pounds!" demanded Charles, contemptuously. "Does your master consider one hundred thousand pounds a great sum to pay for so great a city as Dunkirk?"

"It is a great sum to pay, your Majesty," returned the Abbe, with meekness in his manner, but boldness in his words, "when it is considered that the king of France might have the city of Dunkirk for the mere taking, did he not love your Majesty."

"Might have it for the mere taking, say you?" cried Charles, with a flash of imitation fire. "Odds fish, man! What do you suppose we should be doing while he was taking it?"

"Sending ships across the Channel at a great cost in money and life to your people, your Majesty," coolly, though meekly, answered the Abbe.

"Of that my people will not complain," answered Charles, still burning a pinch of red powder. "Their blood and their gold will be given gladly to defend my possessions abroad. My people are brave and do not fear death for the sake of their king, I would have you to know, Sir Abbe."

"Noble praise, your Majesty, and beautiful in the mouth of a king who stands ready to march at the head of his own army, and to help fight the good fight of his own cause," returned the Abbe, bowing with deep humility.

"Sir, your words are bold and are in no way mitigated by your humble mien!" exclaimed the king. "If you have no other offer to make, the audience will end, at least for the present."