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

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

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

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

"Upstairs in bed," she answered.

"Is he sick?" I asked, rising.

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

"His wounds?" I exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With you, Betty?" I asked.

"No, no, with some one else."

"Would it make you unhappy?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

SWEET BETTY PICKERING

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

"Well, Clyde, what do you want?"

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

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

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

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

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

"But what have I done?" I asked.

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

"If neither you nor I know what I have done to offend, how are we to settle this matter? How may I apologize or make amends?" I asked.

"You can't," he returned.

"Ah, but I can and I will, George Hamilton," I answered, determined not to let him put me off without knowing wherein I had offended. "Save what you heard at Sundridge, I have neither done nor said anything unfit to come from a friend. If any man has reported me otherwise, he has lied.

If any woman--well, she is mistaken."

"No one has reported you otherwise or any wise," he answered.

"Then tell me the cause of your grievance, and I may be able to explain or deny. You perhaps know by this time that I always speak the truth to you, so out with it, George. Let us settle this matter, whatever it be--one way or the other. Friendship should not be left to dangle between love and hatred. It sits squarely on the heart of an honest man, or is cast out candidly and above board. Shall I sit down?"