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  THE TOUCHSTONE OF FORTUNE

  Being the Memoir of Baron Clyde, who lived, thrived, and fell in theDoleful Reign of the so-called Merry Monarch, Charles II

  by

  CHARLES MAJOR

  Author of _When Knighthood Was In Flower_, etc.

  1912

  To My Wife

  CHAPTER I

  DAUGHTERS AND POVERTY

  Goddess Fortune seems to delight in smiling on a man who risks hisall, including life, perhaps, on a desperate chance of, say one to onehundred. If her Ladyship frowns and he loses, his friends call him afool; if he wins, they say he is a lucky devil and are pleased to sharehis prosperity if he happens to be of a giving disposition. Lucky? No!He has simply minted his courage.

  The most remarkable illustration of these truths that has ever come to myknowledge is my friend George Hamilton, the second son in this generationof the illustrious House of Hamilton, Count Anthony being its presenthead. The younger son was penniless save for the crumbs that fell fromhis elder brother's table, and Count Anthony was one who kept an eye onthe crumbs.

  George, who was of an independent nature, accepted Anthony's grudginghelp reluctantly. Therefore when Charles II was restored to the Englishthrone in 1660, the younger Hamilton, who had been with the king inexile, was glad to assume the duties of Second Gentleman of theBedchamber in Whitehall Palace. With the pension attached to this office,winnings at cards and other uncertain revenues from disreputable sources,George was enabled to maintain himself at court where debts were notnecessarily paid, where honesty and virtue were held in contempt, andwhere vice of all sorts was not only the daily stock in trade but thedaily stock of jest and pleasure, boasting and pride; for what is theuse of being wicked if one hides one's light under a bushel?

  Hamilton was a favorite with those who knew him well and was respectedby those who knew him slightly, not because of his virtues, for they werefew, but because he was strikingly handsome in person, moderately quickof wit, generous to an enemy, kind to every one, brave to the point ofrecklessness, and decent even in vice, if that be possible. He was nobetter than his friends save in these easy qualities, but while he was asbad in all other respects as his surroundings, the evil in him was duemore to environment than to natural tendencies, and the good--well, thatwas his undoing, as this history will show. A man who attempts to 'boutship morally in too great haste is liable to miss stays and be swamped,for nothing so grates on us as the sudden reformation of our friends,while we remain unregenerate.

  But to write Hamilton's history I must begin at the beginning, whichin this case happens to be my beginning, and shall conclude with his"hundred to one" venture, which closed his career and mine, at leastin England.

  * * * * *

  The Clydes, of whom I am the present head, have always had great respectfor the inevitable and have never permitted the idealization of ahopeless cause to lead them into trouble solely for trouble's sake. Soit was that when my father of blessed memory saw that King Charles I andhis favorites were determined to wreck the state, themselves, and theirfriends, he fell ill of the gout at an opportune moment, which made itnecessary for him to hasten to Germany to take the cure at the baths.

  My revered father was the twenty-second Baron Clyde, Edwin by baptism,and I, his namesake, am, or rather was, the twenty-third and last baronof our line, having lost my title by reason of entanglement with thedesperate fortunes of George Hamilton.

  My father had been a staunch supporter of Charles I, not only becauseCharles was our divinely appointed king, but also because his Majestywas a lovable person in many respects. His misfortunes were the resultof bad advice, false philosophy, and a heart too kind. Kindliness in aking is a dangerous virtue, and a royal conscience is like a boil onthe elbow, always in the way. Aside from his kindliness there were onlytwo other qualities necessary to insure King Charles I the loss of hishead, and he possessed them--stubbornness and weakness. A good king needhave but two virtues, strength and love for his people, but if he wouldreign comfortably, these virtues must be supplemented by a strenuousvice,--sure death to his enemies.

  So when my father saw that fidelity to King Charles's hopeless causemeant hopeless ruin, he took the gout and went to Germany. Absence fromEngland enabled him to desert the cause he loved, but could not help,and more, it saved him the humiliation of being compelled to join theCromwell forces,--a cause which he could have helped, but hated.Therefore he saw to it that his gout remained with him during the entireCromwell interregnum, and he died at Aix-la-Chapelle just before therecall of Charles II to the English throne.

  I inherited my father's title and a part of his estate; a great portionof the latter having been granted to the accommodating husband of one ofCharles II's friends.

  I returned to England with the king, and, as balm to my wounded estate,was made Second Gentleman of the Wardrobe in that modern Sodom, WhitehallPalace, Westminster, where lived Charles II, who was said to have beenappointed and anointed of God, king of our glorious realm. God makessome curious mistakes, if human opinion is to be accepted.

  The name Lot was unknown in Whitehall, but Mesdames Potiphar, Salome, andDelilah were met at every turn, while Davids and Johns, eager to betempted, and Samsons, stooping to be shorn, hedged the king about withanything save divinity.

  That interesting Frenchman, Comte de Grammont, is accredited with sayingthat during his residence in England he knew but one woman in Whitehallwho was both beautiful and pure,--Frances Jennings, maid of honor toher Grace, the Duchess of York, the Duke of York being James, brother ofCharles II, and heir presumptive to the English throne.

  I am proud to say that this beautiful Frances Jennings was my mother'sbrother's child. In early youth I had lived in her father's house and wasmore her elder brother than her cousin.

  I suppose De Grammont was wrong in his sweeping assertion, but he wasright in his judgment of Frances, for though she was admittedly the mostbeautiful woman--perhaps I should say girl, for she was very young--atcourt, she--. But what befell her is a part of George Hamilton's historyand shall be told all in its turn.

  * * * * *

  Frances Jennings and her younger sister Sarah, who afterwards became thefirst duchess of the present House of Marlborough, were the daughters ofmy uncle, Sir Richard Jennings, of Sundridge, near St. Albans. With afidelity more creditable to his heart than to his head, Sir Richard hadclung to the cause of Charles I, had lost his entire fortune, and in theend was forced to bend his neck to the yoke of Cromwell to save his life.When Charles II returned to the throne, he easily forgave Sir Richard hisenforced apostasy, but failed to return his estates, forgiveness being somuch easier than restitution to an indolent selfish nature.

  So it was that at the time this story opens, which was several yearsafter King Charles's return, Sir Richard and his two daughters wereliving almost in poverty at Sundridge, hoping for help from the king,though little expecting it. Without assistance furnished by myself and aformer retainer of Sir Richard, one Roger Wentworth, who had become aprosperous tanner of Sundridge, my cousins and my uncle would have beenreduced to want. But Wentworth and I kept up a meagre household, and Iwas on watch at court to forward my uncle's interest, if by any goodfortune an opportunity should come. At last, after long waiting, it came,though as often occurs with happiness delayed, it was mingled withbitterness.

  I think it was in the year 1662 or '63--it may have been a year or twoearlier or later, I cannot say at this distance of time--the Duchess ofYork, who, with her husband, lived in Whitehall Palace with King Charles,announced her intention of choosing her maids of honor by personalinspection. She declared that, barring the fact that the maids must be ofgood famil
y, beauty would win the golden apple, as it had in oldenGreece. On hearing this news, I saw the opportunity for which I hadwaited so long. If beauty was to be the test, surely my cousin Franceswould become a maid of honor, and once at court, if she could keep herhead and her heart, the fortunes of her house were sure to rise, for theworld has never known so good a beauty market as Whitehall was at thattime.

  There was no question about my cousin's beauty. Would she be able to makeit bring a price worthy of its quality? To do this, she must have thecunning of the serpent, the virtue of a saint, and the courage of Rolandhimself. She must not be fastidious, though she must be suspicious. Shemust not be a prude, though she must know that all is evil about her.Lastly she must have no heart, though she must learn the rare art ofbeing tender to the right person at the right time.

  I was sure that Frances was equipped with the mental and moral qualitiesnecessary in so dangerous a field as Whitehall Court. Among thosequalities was her knowledge that she was beautiful; not that she believedit as a matter of vanity, but knew it simply as a matter of fact. Thatknowledge would give her self-confidence and would help her to valuejustly the flattery of men, which was sure to be her portion tooverflowing. She would know that flattery was her due, and thereforewould not be too grateful for it, gratitude being a dangerous virtue ina woman. She was as dear to me as if she were my sister, and I hesitatedbringing her to terrible Whitehall. But desperate conditions needdesperate remedies, so I determined to lay the matter before my uncle andlet him and my cousins decide the question for themselves.

  With this object in view, one bright spring morning, I took horse at theLeg Tavern in King Street, Westminster, and rode to Sundridge to spend afew days with my uncle, hoping to interest my beautiful cousin in theDuchess of York's announcement concerning the choice of her maids. I knewthat Sir Richard would protest against Frances's going to Whitehall, butI hoped, with the help of my cousins, to override the old gentleman'sfeeble will. While I saw clearly the dangers the girl would encounter; Ihad faith in her strength, and felt sure the chances of making herfortune were worth the risk. In other words, I was staking a human soulwhich was infinitely dear to me, against wealth and station--a hundred toone chance, even with the Fates smiling. When one considers how seldomthe long odds are taken and how often they win, one cannot help believingthat courage is the touchstone of Fortune; the criterion by which thecapricious Goddess measures her votaries and distributes her smiles.

  I made my journey to Sundridge and arrived there in the afternoon nearthe hour of three, finding my uncle and my cousin Sarah at home, butFrances abroad.

  "She walks a great deal nowadays," remarked my uncle, and Sarah assentedwith--"Yes, a great deal," having, I fancied, more significance in hermanner than in her words.

  "There has been hardly a pleasant afternoon in a month that she has notbeen abroad with her book," continued Sir Richard.

  "Her book," murmured Sarah, who was a laconic young person, much given toobserving conditions about her and equally prone to keep her conclusionsto herself.

  "She refuses all company," remarked my uncle, who did not seem to catchthe sceptical inflection in his younger daughter's voice, "and Isometimes fear she wishes to be alone because she is brooding over ourmisfortunes."

  "Brooding!" murmured Sarah, with slightly lifted eyebrows.

  "Even when she is at home she sits all day long at the window and sighs,"said Sir Richard, dolefully.

  "Sighs," concurred laconic Sarah.

  There are so many symptoms which, in a young woman, may seem to indicatethe disease of love that one making a hasty diagnosis is likely to fallupon that malady, it being prevalent in spring, both of the year and oflife. I had believed that my cousin's healthful vanity and quiet strengthof character would, in a measure, keep her safe from this troublesomespring disorder, but my uncle's account of her doings led me to fear thatperhaps her wholesome armor of self-conceit was not so invulnerable asI had hoped.

  Later I spoke my half-formed doubt to Sarah, who answered:--

  "I don't know what she is doing. I attend to my own business; that is,unless I see profit in meddling elsewhere."

  "Ah, but this is your business and mine if we love your sister, as youwill say when you learn the object of my visit," I answered, hoping toloosen her cautious tongue.

  Sarah's eyes opened wide with a question in them, but her lips remainedsealed, and I would not satisfy her curiosity, which I knew was atboiling-point, until she had made a direct request. Her manner hadresolved my doubts into fears, so as she did not speak, I continued:--

  "But you must be able to form an opinion as to what your sister is doing.You are with her all the time, and every young girl instinctively knowsthe symptoms of love, even though she may never have felt them."

  "Not I!" she answered, with sharp emphasis.

  "Oh, but you may suspect or surmise," I insisted.

  "Suspect sometimes. Surmise never. Waste of energy," answered Sarah, who,of all the persons I knew, had energy to spare.

  "It would be a crime, a horrible crime," I continued, hoping in time toextract her opinion, "if your beautiful sister were to throw herself awayon any man to be met hereabout."

  "Horrible!" acquiesced Sarah, earnestly.

  "Then why don't you watch her, and, if need be, prevent such a mistake?"I suggested.

  "Not necessary," answered Sarah.

  As she failed to explain, I asked, "Why is it not necessary?"

  "Because she is not a fool," returned Sarah, indicating by her mannerthat I might find her meaning if I could.

  A moment's thought carried me to her conclusions, and I laughed because Iwas answered and pleased, being convinced that Sarah, at least, did notconsider her sister in danger. Then I caught Sarah in my arms and kissedher, saying:--

  "A kiss! That's for wisdom, cousin!" Sarah's was a drawing personality.

  "A slap! That's for impudence!" answered Sarah, suiting the action to theword, though there was a smile in her eyes.

  Later in the afternoon Frances came home radiant and offered me her cheekto kiss. She was delighted to see me, though I noticed short lapses fromattention, which seemed to indicate preoccupation. But I had learned mylesson from Sarah and soon came back to my belief that Frances was not afool, and that whatever malady her symptoms might indicate, she wouldnever permit it to inure her.

  After talking with my uncle and my cousins a few minutes, I said: "I havehad a long ride and want a good supper Come, Frances, let us go out andbuy all the good things in Sundridge."

  Sir Richard said nothing, and a faint shadow of humiliation came toFrances's face, but practical Sarah settled the question by saying:--

  "Go with him, Frances, and see that he buys enough. You know we have hadbarely a crust in the house the last fortnight, and not a farthing in allthat time with which to buy one. We have a warm welcome for you, BaronNed, but welcome after a long ride is a mere appetizer. I'll fetch abasket--yes, two!"

  The name "Baron Ned" was a heritage from the days of my childhood, anddoubtless it will cling to me till the day of my death. I have neverobjected to it on the lips of my friends, but rather, have always likedit.

  Sarah's good common sense set us all laughing, and when she brought intwo large baskets, Frances and I went forth to buy our supper.

  When we were a short way from the house, I said: "I've come to spendseveral days with you, my cousin-sister. Are you not delighted?"

  "Yes," she answered, cordially enough, but without the old-time gladnessin her manner.

  "And my purpose in coming concerns you," I continued.

  She started perceptibly and blushed, but after a moment brought herselftogether and asked laughingly:--

  "You don't want to marry me, brother Ned?"

  "No, no," I answered. "We're far too dear to each other to spoil it allby marriage, and my station in life, to say nothing of my small estate,is in no way up to your value. It would not be a fair exchange. Yourhusband shall be at least a duke, with not l
ess than forty thousandpounds a year. That, by the way, is a part of my mission in Sundridge.No, no, I do not bring an offer!" I said, hastily, noticing that shedrew away from me in her manner, "I simply hope to pave the way to suchan offer some time in the future, and want to warn you against doinganything that might forestall good fortune."

  I had hardly finished speaking when her manner of drawing away became sopronounced that I feared I might lose my race by going too fast, so Iquickly sought to right myself by saying with marked emphasis:--

  "I am not going to pry into your affairs."

  A telltale blush came to her cheek as she interrupted me with a touch ofwarmth: "I have no affairs."

  "I am sure you have not," I answered soothingly, "though a girl asbeautiful as you are is sure to attract men, and is quite as sure to havelittle affairs. But they are of no more importance than a laugh and asigh."

  "Yes, yes, of course. Of no importance--not the least," she answered,blushing exquisitely, and unconsciously telling me there was an affair.

  "No, no," I continued earnestly. "I do not want to pry. I am simply goingto suggest a project which perhaps you may turn to your advantage.Marriage has no part in it save that the greatest good fortune that canbefall a woman is to marry well, which I hope will be the ultimate resultof what I shall propose. If a young woman's friends do not put her in aposition to marry the right sort of a man, they fail in their duty toher."

  "I hate the word 'marriage,'" returned Frances, impatiently.

  "Ah, but it is a woman's privilege, the one great purpose of her life," Iinsisted. "Why pretend otherwise? I don't believe in the drag-net processof getting a husband, but in England a girl must be seen before she ismarried, and her chief concern should be to be seen by the right man."

  "I should detest the right man," returned Frances, now grown almostsurly.

  "Yes, yes, now, perhaps. But the suggestion I have to make, if actedupon, will do all these things for you and will give you the opportunityto detest the 'right man' intelligently if you feel so inclined when youmeet him. I have taken it upon myself to come all the way to Sundridgewith a suggestion, because of the love I bear you and because you have nomother to do these things for you. As for dear Uncle Richard--well, youknow, he can't."

  "No, no! father is old and of late has been failing rapidly. Sarah and Ican look for no help from him. On the contrary, we must help him. I havethought of nothing else, night or day, for years. Tell me what it is youhave to suggest. What you have had to say to us has always been for ourgood. We should have starved these last five years had it not been foryou and good old Roger Wentworth. Tell me, Baron Ned, what have you cometo offer me?"

  I had intended telling Frances privately of the Duchess of York'sannouncement, but after my talk with her I concluded to wait and to makethe statement in the presence of her father, so I answered:--

  "I am not ready to tell you just now, but I'll do so before I return toLondon."

  "Then return at once, Baron Ned."

  "If I do, you'll never hear it," I answered.

  "In that case, stay. But tell me as soon as you can, for pent-upcuriosity is killing to a girl," said Frances, with a doleful littlesmile.

  "Does nothing else trouble just now?" I asked.

  She turned to me in surprise, blushed and answered: "Yes. My poor, dearfather. Yes--father. Of course there's nothing else. Why do you ask?"

  "Just to be asking," I replied.

  At that point we came to the shop where we were to buy our supper, and Iwas glad to change the subject. I had learned definitely that there was aman in the case, and my task would be to put him out if I could. The manwho first enters a young girl's heart is hard to dislodge, and the worstpart of the terrible business is that even she herself may be unable toexpel him her whole life through.

  When supper was well under way that evening, I took the opportunity toset my great ball rolling, and said:--

  "Uncle Richard, I have come from London for the purpose of offering asuggestion which may eventually be of advantage to all of you."

  Sarah put down her knife and fork to listen; Frances held hers insuspense, and Sir Richard looked up quickly, asking:--

  "What is it, nephew? We all thank you in advance."

  A cold bath is better taken quickly, so I plunged in.

  "The Duchess of York has announced her intention to choose four maids ofhonor by personal inspection. Aside from the fact that they must be ofgood family, they will be taken solely on account of their beauty, themost beautiful to win."

  Frances dropped her knife and fork and sprang to her feet, exclaiming:--

  "I'm going to see the duchess! Thank you, cousin Ned! I'll be a maid ofhonor!"

  "Of course--beauty!" observed Sarah, resuming her supper with a drylaugh.

  "Your sister can win on the terms offered, if anyone can," said I,turning sharply on Sarah.

  "I am sure of it," returned Sarah. "I laughed only because _she_ is sosure."

  Frances then turned to her sister, not reproachfully but earnestly:"Sure?" she exclaimed. "Of course I am sure. I know myself. You have afar better mind than mine, but I have--well, I know what I have. I don'tbelieve I am vain, but I know, sister, that you and I must rebuild thefortunes of our house, or worse will come to us than we have ever known.You are sure to do your part because you have intellect--brains. _You_know you have. Is it any less a matter of vanity for you to know yourselfthan it is for me to know myself? I know what I have, and I intend to useit."

  Sarah assented by the monosyllable, "Right!" while Frances ran to thehead of the table, knelt by her father's chair, and said:--

  "It is all for dear old father's sake."

  Sir Richard brought his daughter's head to his shoulder, affectionatelysmoothed her hair for a moment, and spoke with quavering earnestness:--

  "It is not to be thought of one moment. Whitehall is a nest of infamy,and the king, I am told, is the worst man in it. I gave all I had to hismartyred father, and now the son does not even so much as refuse to makerestitution. He simply gives lying promises and leaves me to starve. I amsurprised, nephew, that you come to us with this proposition."

  "In that case, dear uncle, it shall be dropped at once," said I,expecting, however, to take it up at another time.

  Frances was about to insist, but a glance from Sarah stopped her, and sheremained silent. I knew it would require a great deal of sound argumentto bring Sir Richard to our way of thinking, but I was sure that Sarahcould soften him and that, at the right time, I could finish our helplessantagonist. Meantime the love affair of Frances, if there was one, shouldbe looked into, if Frances did not object too seriously. In truth, I wasa very busy man, solely with the affairs of other people.

  Being so engaged in telling of other people's affairs, I have not hadtime to mention the fact that I had a love affair of my own, that is, ifI may call that a love affair which involved only one person--myself. Shewho I hoped would one day be the party of the second part was MaryHamilton, sister to Count Anthony and George Hamilton, mention of whomwas made at the outset of this history.

  I myself may have been lacking in morals, but at my worst I was a saintcompared to George Hamilton and his friends, Lord Berkeley, youngWentworth, and the king's son, James Crofts, Duke of Monmouth. There was,however, this difference between George and his friends: he wasgentlemanly picturesque in wickedness; they were nauseous in the_filthiness_ of vice.

  After I became a suitor for the hand of George Hamilton's sister, I hadclosed my eyes to his shortcomings and, for some time prior to mySundridge visit, had sought to further my cause with her by winning herbrother's help. I had known Hamilton many years before, when we wereall exiles in Holland and France, and had always liked him. In fact, wehad been friends from our youth, and while in latter years I had not seenmuch of him, having avoided him because of his vicious mode of life, Ihad found no difficulty in taking up our old intimacy. At the time ofwhich I am writing I was sure that he was my friend and had given himgood reaso
n to think the same of me. There was an attraction about himthat was winning and irresistible even to men. What must it have been towomen?

  I speak of this friendship between George Hamilton and me at this timebecause of the great strain its bonds were soon to have; so great that Iam still wondering why they did not break. To close this mention of myown love affair, I would say that at the time of my visit to SundridgeI had reasonable cause to hope for a favorable termination. Not that Iexpected ever to kindle a fiery passion in Mary's breast, for she was notof the combustible sort, but I believed she liked me, favored my suit,and I hoped would accept me in the end. While she was very pretty, shewas not of so great beauty as to mislead her family into expecting thatshe would catch an earl by fishing in a duck pond, and, barring the earl,I should be a husband more or less satisfactory to her and her family.George was my friend in the matter, and to him I believed I owed much ofmy prospects of success. Soon the relation of my own love affair to thatof my cousin Frances will be apparent.

  My second day at Sundridge was spent with my uncle and my cousins,Frances remaining at home with us. Adroit Sarah had talked with herfather about the maid-of-honorship and had found an opportunity to tellme that while he was not yet persuaded, he was at least in a receptivemood, ready to listen to what I had to say. In the evening Frances andSarah went off to bed early, leaving Sir Richard to the mercies of myselfand a flagon of wormwood wine which I had brought in as an ally from theBlack Dog Tavern.

  At first when I broached the subject of Frances becoming a maid of honor,he turned away from me, saying:--

  "I fear, nephew, I fear! I confess that I did not expect the suggestionto come from you; you know the court even better than I do. My dear boy,we might as well send the little girl to the devil at once."

  "Whitehall is no heaven, I admit," I answered. "But you don't knowFrances. She will be as safe at court as she is in your house. The devilis everywhere, uncle, if one chooses to seek him."

  "That is true, Ned."

  "And Frances will not seek him anywhere. Of that I was sure before Idetermined to suggest this matter. It is true she has seen nothing oflife beyond the pale of your influence and protection, but you are wellalong in years, uncle, and must face the truth that your daughters willhave to confront the world without you, sooner or later--later, I hope."

  "That terrible truth is my only reason to fear death," returned SirRichard, sighing and leaning back in his chair.

  "Yes, it must be a terrible thought to you," I answered, cruelly, for thepurpose of forcing my dear old antagonist into the right way of thinking."But it is your duty to your daughters to face it squarely, and ifpossible, to let it help you in preparing them to meet the world. Theymay, if they will, find evil everywhere; they may avoid it anywhere.Frances, with her marvellous beauty, is sure to meet good fortune atcourt, and good fortune is a great moral preservative of women."

  "Bad doctrine, Ned, bad doctrine," said my uncle, shaking his head.

  "But good truth," I answered. "Vice, like disease, breeds best inpoverty."

  "You have just admitted that Whitehall is a nest of vice. Wealth has notprevented it there," returned my uncle, beating me in the argument for amoment.

  But I soon rallied: "Wealth will not help those who want to go wrong, butit has saved many a woman who wanted to be good. However, all thisargument is impertinent. Frances is strong, and she is good, and you mayrest your mind of all fear that she will ever be otherwise. Hers is notonly the virtue of goodness, but of stubbornness and pride."

  "I believe you are right, nephew," returned my uncle, smiling for thefirst time that evening. "Stubbornness is a good thing in a woman, and myFrances has a store of it 'that might surprise one knowing her butslightly."

  "Yes," I replied. "And now, while her beauty is reaching its climax,is the time for her to make the most of it. I know the world, uncle,and I know the court, only too well, I am ashamed to say. But above all,I know my cousin, and knowing also the evil state of your fortune, Iunhesitatingly urge you to seize the opportunity presented by the Duchessof York. She is a good woman and my dear friend. Frances will be underher care and mine. Of my care I need not boast. It shall be that of abrother. But Frances will need no one's care for long. She will soon finda husband, rich and of high rank, and then--"

  "Would you send my girl out angling for a husband?" asked Sir Richard.

  "Yes, if you insist on putting it so," I replied. "What is every girldoing? What else is every good mother doing for her daughter? Marriageis the one way in which a gentlewoman may find settlement in life.Frances has no mother. Let us help her to win the happiness she deserves.'Angling' is an ugly word, and in Frances's case is not the right one.Great men and rich men will soon be angling for her. Let us place herwhere the bait is worth taking. Let us not mince matters, but admitbetween ourselves that we are sending Frances to court to make a goodmarriage. No one less than a rich duke or a wealthy earl will satisfyme. If you wish to allow a mere jealous fear in your heart to blight herprospects, she will be the sufferer, and hereafter may thank your follyfor her misfortune."

  Sir Richard remained silent a moment or two and then spoke tremulously:"The saddest thing about age is its hesitancy, its doubts, its fears."Here the tears began to stream down the old man's cheek as he continued:"Through all my misfortunes Frances has been my joy, my solace. Sarah isa good daughter, but she lacks the ineffable tenderness, the calm, readysympathy of her sister. If evil were to befall Frances, my heart wouldbreak--break." He covered his face with his hands and sobbed, murmuringas though to himself: "My God, I fear! I fear! She is my all--all! Theking has taken everything else, and now you ask me to give her to him."

  A great lump came to my throat, but in a moment I was able to say: "Donot fear, uncle, do not fear! Rather, rejoice! Let me be your staff, yourcourage, your strength! Think it over till morning, and then give yourconsent with the full assurance that it will mean happiness for the girlwhom you and I so dearly love."

  The old man rose, took my hand, held it in his feeble grasp for a moment,and went to his room without another word.

  As I was going down the narrow passageway to my bedroom, Frances openedher door and asked: "What does father say? I know it almost kills him."

  "Yes," I answered. "But he will consent in the morning."

  Tears came to her eyes and she gave me her hand, saying: "Thank you,brother Ned. We are wounding him only for his own sake. If it were not tohelp him, all the wealth in the world would not tempt me to give him thispain nor to go to Whitehall, for I fear the place."

  As she stood at the door, candle in hand, her low-cut gown exposing herbeautiful throat with its strong full curves, its gleaming whiteness andthe pulsing hollow at the base, her marvellous hair of sunlit goldhanging in two thick braids to below her waist, her sweet oval face ofsnowy whiteness, underlaid with the faint pink of roses, her greatluminous eyes with their arched and pencilled brows, and the tearspendant from the long black lashes, I could not help knowing that therewas not in all Whitehall beauty to compare with hers. And when her fullred lips parted in a tearful smile, showing a gleam of ivory betweentheir curving lines, I knew that if our king were an unmarried man, shecould be our queen, but barring that high estate, I felt sure that ascore of titles and great fortunes would lie at her feet before she hadbeen a month in Whitehall. That is, I knew all this would happen if shekept her head. The king himself would be her greatest danger, for in away, he was handsome of person when he kept his mouth closed, and even alittle beauty in a king, like a candlelight in a distant window, shineswith magnified radiance.

  I went to bed that night having great faith in my cousin's strength anddiscretion, but my confidence was to receive a shock the next day.