But she dared not retreat, so inserting the key, she entered.

In the dim light of the room the images of faded knights, angels, saints, and dragons seemed to stand like a small army of ghosts ready to deny her pa.s.sage. But soon she discovered the figure of St. George, pressed the eye of the dragon, lifted the tapestry, and entered the room of a printing shop.

While Frances had been standing in hesitation before the figure of the saint, she had heard with some alarm a rumbling noise in the room she was about to enter. The rumbling is destined, in my opinion, to go down the line of the ages, an instrument of untold good to mankind, for it was the rumbling of a printing-press.

Standing at the press, lifting and lowering it by means of a foot lever, and feeding it with broad strips of paper, stood a man in his shirt-sleeves. At an inclined desk, a type-case, stood another man setting type, close beside the press. He, also, was in his shirt-sleeves and was much older and stouter than the man at the press.

The rumbling had drowned the slight noise occasioned by the opening of the door, so that Frances stood waiting a full minute before she was observed. The stout man at the type-case was the first to see her, and when he turned, she asked, trembling:--

"I am seeking Master Hamilton. Shall I find him here?"

The man at the press then turned quickly to Frances. His face was smooth shaven, but was almost covered with printers' ink, giving him the appearance of a blackamoor. The stout man at the type-case, failing to respond, and the other being apparently too surprised to speak, Frances went to the blackamoor and, standing beside the press, was about to repeat her inquiry.

The type-case, press, and a small table, on which lay a bundle of white paper, all stood huddled together in the centre of the room, occupying a s.p.a.ce of perhaps eight feet square.

Before Frances had gained courage to speak, a small bell rang.

Immediately the stout man sprang from the type-case, ran in great haste to a chest near the wall, opened the lid and drew forth a long red cloak and a fez-shaped cap of the same color, each embroidered with signs of the zodiac in tarnished gold. He hurriedly put on the gown and cap, and again diving into the chest, drew forth a long black coat, a broad Quaker hat, a false beard, and a white wig. These he tossed to the blackamoor, then ran across the room, opened a concealed panel in the wall, drew down a lever, closed the panel, sprang to a large desk near by, sat down and began to write diligently.

These strange, rapid actions on the part of the stout man were so surprising and alarming to Frances that for the moment she did not notice that the section of the floor on which she, the blackamoor, and all the printing apparatus were standing was sinking. Almost before she was aware of the startling movement of the floor, which, after it had begun to move, seemed to fall rather than sink, it stopped suddenly, perhaps eight feet below. The floor above closed silently over her head, and she found herself alone with the inky man in almost total darkness.

She was too badly frightened to scream, or even to speak, and stood in silence, awaiting with benumbed senses whatever calamity might befall her.

After a minute or two the blackamoor spoke in whispers: "Mistress Jennings need have no fear. The officers of her friend, the king, have just come to the Old Swan seeking me. The bell you heard was the alarm, sounded by Betty Pickering. Unless she is able to keep them away from here, you may perhaps hear the sheriffs presently in the room above with Doctor Lilly, the man you saw at the type-case. If they come, I trust you will remain silent, unless you are here for the purpose of betraying me."

Frances recognized Hamilton's voice, and, notwithstanding his cruel suspicion, her fear gave place to joy, for she knew that she could soon drive all doubt from his heart. His words did not even hurt her, for she bore in mind the great injustice she had done him, and remembered the good reason he had to believe that she was not his friend. She tried to speak calmly and within the bounds of propriety, but the cold words she would have spoken refused to leave her lips, and after a futile effort to restrain herself, that which was in her heart came forth, because she could not keep it back.

"Ah, Master Hamilton, you do not understand. I came to tell you that I am not what you deem me; that if you had good reason to believe me pure when we met at Sundridge, you have the same reason now. I want to tell you that when I refused to recognize you on that awful day in the Old Swan, when you fought so bravely in my behalf, I thought you were guilty of Roger Wentworth's death."

"No, no, I am not that bad," interrupted Hamilton.

"At Sundridge you made me believe that you loved me," continued Frances, unmindful of the interruption. "And now since you would not come to me, nor send me word in all this long weary time, I could not restrain myself, but, all unmaidenly, have come to you because I can in no way put my love from my heart, pray and try as I will."

She reached forth her hand in the dark and touched him. She had not underestimated her strength when she believed that by a word she could drive doubt from his heart and bring him to her feet, for in a breath she who had scorned the love of a king, and had laughed at the greatest n.o.bles in England, was in the arms of a man on whose life the king had set a price. Her head fell back into the bend of his elbow, her willing lips gave him their sweetness, her arm was clasped about his neck, and she had forgotten all save love and the man she loved.

George said nothing, so after a little time, Frances continued: "Tell me that you know I am not the creature evil-minded persons pretend to believe I am. I might have been a d.u.c.h.ess, with grand estates, by gift from the king, but I am not, nor ever shall be. I loathe him, and so great is my sense of contamination that when he touches my hand in dancing, I almost feel that it is a thing of evil."

"And you, whom I hear the king would marry, who, I am told, might pick and choose a husband from among the richest and n.o.blest of the land, for whom it is said the Duke of Tyrconnel is longing, come here to this hole and throw yourself away on me, an outcast; one who makes his daily bread by labor at a printing-press, one on whose life the king has set a price?

You come here to give yourself to me!" cried George, almost stunned by surprise and joy.

He held her close to him and kissed her lips, not to his content, for that would have been impossible, but till he checked himself to hear her answer. But she did not speak, and after a little time he led her, groping his way in the dark, to a box standing against the wall, where they sat down. She clasped his hand, but did not answer his question.

Supposing that her silence was without cause, and wishing an answer in words, George continued:--

"It is difficult to believe that you, who went to court to make your fortune, should refuse it when it is in your grasp and should give yourself to me."

"No, no," she answered, withdrawing her hand from his clasp and covering her face. "I do not, I may not give myself to you. But I do give you love, such as I believe no woman ever before gave to a man. I am going to marry the Duke of Tyrconnel. But when I learned how grievously I had wronged you, I would not give him my promise of marriage until I had seen you and had told you of my love, and had taken one moment of happiness before the door is closed between us forever."

This answer came to Hamilton as a chilling surprise, but a moment's consideration brought him to see that the girl was right, save, perhaps, in telling her love to a man she could not marry. His knowledge of womankind did not help him to know that her hopelessness had been a stimulant, both to her love and to its prodigal expression. It did not occur to him that what she had done and said might be the outpouring of her despair, and that even a faint hope of ever possessing him as her husband might have operated as a restraint for modesty's sake. Therefore, with unconscious perversity, Hamilton resented what Frances had done in giving him her unmeasured love when she knew that she could not give herself, and he spoke from the midst of his pain:--

"I know that I am not worthy to be your husband. Even had you not taken so great pains to tell me, but had been willing to wreck your life by marrying me, I should not have accepted the sacrifice. From the first, my love for you has been the one unselfish impulse of my life, and since I have almost lost hope of ever being worthy of you, I should not have permitted you to share my wretched life, even had you been willing. But for you to come to me and to give me your love, only to s.n.a.t.c.h it back again before I have had time to refuse the sacrifice, is cruel."

"I do not s.n.a.t.c.h my love back again," she answered pleadingly. "I could not if I would. I have given it to you for life, and it is beyond recall.

It is yours forever and forever--all of which my poor aching heart is capable. Would you rather it had lain in my breast unspoken, through all the long years I have to live? You say your love is unselfish--"

"If there's anything unselfish in me," interrupted Hamilton.

"Yes, I believe it is unselfish to the extent that a man's love may be,"

returned Frances, defending herself. "But if it is, surely you would not deny me the joy of telling you of mine, when it is all the happiness I shall ever know my whole life through. You say, with truth, I believe, that you would not permit me to share your fate if I would, because you fear to make me unhappy. Yet you complain and say that I am cruel because I take now what joy I can at so shameful a sacrifice of womanly pride and modesty. You say that I am cruel because I cannot give you all--myself. I would share your fortunes unhesitatingly were it not that I dare not give one thought to my own happiness."

She paused for a moment to gather self-control, and when she was more calm, proceeded with her defence: "I belong to my father and to my house, and G.o.d has appointed me to lift them from their fallen estate. I cannot give you myself, but I do give you my love for the sheer ecstasy of giving, and beg you to accept it as all that I have to offer and to give me the sweet privilege of keeping yours, which. I know is mine, that it may warm my heart in the weary years to come. I wonder if you, being a man, can understand it all. I hardly understand it myself, but this I know: I have done what I have done because I could not help it, and you say that I am cruel because you feel a part of the pain I suffer."

"No, no, I was wrong," said Hamilton, dropping to his knees before her and seizing her hand. "Forgive me and believe that my love is unselfish and that it will be yours so long as I live. All that is not evil in me, I owe to you, and I am striving to make myself more worthy of your love, even though I must surrender you to another."

"Betty told me of your good deeds when a plague was raging in Bishopgate ward," said Frances, "and Baron Ned has told me that you have changed your ways since leaving court."

"I have changed since I learned to know you," he interrupted, "and now, with my first effort to be a man, misfortunes come trooping at my heels so fast that I know not what to do nor where to turn."

"That was one reason why I came to see you," she said. "The king seeks your life because it is said that you threatened his. But you seem to know your danger, and I suppose you have been warned."

"Yes, Grammont warned me. He is a very adroit person and is my friend.

He stands guard for me at court, partly because he is my friend, but chiefly, I imagine, because it is the command of his king, Louis of France. I do not want to bring Baron Ned into trouble. He is known to be my friend, and the king might have him watched, so I am using Grammont as my spy at Whitehall."

"Ah, the Frenchman?" returned Frances. "It was he who dubbed me the 'd.u.c.h.ess of Hearts.' He smiles graciously when we meet, but with all we hear about the wickedness of the French, Grammont has shown me greater respect than I have had from any one of the so-called gallants about the court."

"The day may come when I can repay his kindness," said Hamilton.

"But you must leave England at once," continued Frances. "The king's only show of energy comes in a case such as this. His real reason for seeking your life is that he believes you stand between him and me. You must leave England without delay."

"I mean to do so, now that I have seen you," he returned. "The desire to see you and a spirit of reckless bravado has kept me here much longer than prudence would dictate."

At that moment voices were heard in the room above. George pressed Frances's hand to enjoin silence, fearing that the sheriffs were at hand.

But presently a clanking noise was heard, and George, listening attentively, whispered:--

"There is no further danger. Lilly is opening the lever panel, and soon the floor will rise."

In a moment the doctor's voice came down through the wall, asking, "Are you ready?"

"Yes," answered Hamilton. And then he led Frances back to the printing-press. Instantly the floor above their heads began to roll back, and from the depths rose Frances and Hamilton, to find Betty and me awaiting them. As they came up through the floor, Betty began to laugh, and soon I joined her, for on Frances's eyes, lips, and cheeks were black inky patches, indicating plainly the exact spots where the battle had raged. Through the ink spots on her cheeks ran furrows ploughed by tears, but, withal, my cousin's beautiful face was never more beautiful.

"They have been a-kissing," whispered Betty, seriously, leaning towards me and speaking behind her hand.

"No, no, Betty," I answered, trying to keep a straight face. But she nodded insistently, evidently much surprised and perhaps a little shocked.

By the time Betty and I had concluded this interchange of ideas, Hamilton and Frances were by my side.

"Why are you here?" asked Hamilton, turning to me and then to Betty.

"I had to bring him," answered Betty. "You told me to tell no one, but I had to tell Mistress Jennings because she cried, and I had to bring Baron Ned because he stormed and said that he knew Mistress Jennings had come to see you."

I supplemented Betty's answer by saying: "I was sure Frances had come to the Old Swan to see you, so I followed, arriving just in time to see her cross the courtyard. I sought Betty and asked her to tell me where you were and where my cousin had gone. Just then three sheriffs arrived, searching for you, and I had to wait until Betty got rid of them. Now, here I am, waiting to take my cousin home."