When Hamilton had disappeared, I asked Frances if we should return to Sundridge, and she answering by a nod, we started home, each of us heavy-hearted, one of us weeping pathetically. Her heart had just received its first sharp blow, and I pitied her, for the first one hurts.

After walking a little way in silence, I remarked, "There is no reason why we should add to your father's troubles by telling him of this affair."

"Nor Sarah," sobbed Frances. "She is like a wasp--all sting." After a long pause devoted to drying her eyes, she continued, "But it has not been much of an affair."

"I am not asking what it has been, Frances," I returned, speaking tenderly, for I knew her heart was sore. "I have no right to ask."

"Yes, you have the right to ask," she replied, earnestly. "You have earned it to-day, if never before. I'll tell you all about it. You see I did not know--I did not think it possible--that he was the evil person you described. To me he seemed as high-minded as he was gallant and handsome."

"He is high-minded in many respects," I said, "and might have been a decent man in all respects had he lived under other conditions. He is far the best of what is known at court as 'the Royal Clique,' and is an angel of goodness compared with the king and his despicable son, James Crofts, Duke of Monmouth. Do you want to tell me where and how you met Hamilton?"

After a moment's silence she began her pathetic little narrative, hesitating at first, but gathering courage as she spoke:--

"I first saw him on the street in St. Albans, more than a month ago. Of course I did not look directly at him, but I saw him and knew that he was looking at me. I have been used to being stared at by men since I was a child of twelve--I am past eighteen now, you know--and learned long ago not to resent an impertinence which is alike unavoidable and, in a poor way, flattering. But there was this difference: when he stared at me I blush to say I liked it, nor should I have repulsed him had he spoken to me. He was the first man I had ever seen that had really attracted me.

You are not a woman, therefore you cannot understand me fully. You see, a man goes to a woman; a woman is drawn to a man, usually, I suppose, against her will. I know little about the subject, this being my first, and, I hope, my last experience, but--"

"And I, too, hope," I interrupted.

"Yes," she continued quickly. "But do you know I can almost understand the feeble, hopeless resistance which the iron tries to exert against the magnet. But, cousin Ned, it is powerless."

Here she brought her handkerchief to her eyes, and I exclaimed regretfully, "Oh, Frances, I am surprised and sorry!"

"Yes, yes! I, too, was surprised, and was so sorry that I wept through the whole night following my first sight of him, and between shame for what I felt and longing to see him again, I suffered terribly. I prayed for strength against this, my first temptation, and then my heart shrunk in fear lest I should never again be tempted. The next day I walked out on the Bourne Path toward Hamilton House and met him. To my shame I confess that I looked at him. He stopped, bowed low before me, and asked if he might introduce himself, since there was no one else to do that office for him. He said that soon Lord St. Albans would be up from London and would introduce him to my father. But having seen me the day before at St. Albans, he was unable to wait; therefore, he was at that moment on his way to Sundridge, hoping to see me. He seemed confused and shy, but from what you say, I fear he was not."

"Oh, yes, he was," I interrupted, in fine irony. "George Hamilton is as shy and as modest as the devil himself."

"I fear it is true," she answered smiling faintly and sighing.

I could see plainly that she did not look upon satanic modesty as a serious fault in itself, and I fear it is not objectionable to her s.e.x.

It is the manner of brazenness more than the fact which is offensive.

George's modest-faced boldness was both alluring and dangerous.

As she progressed she grew eager in her narrative, and after two or three false starts, continued: "Then he said that Count Hamilton, our neighbor, was his brother. I was silent for a moment, but presently was so foolish as to say that I had seen him at St. Albans and had asked a shopkeeper who he was. You see I was confused. I had not at all intended to say that I had seen him, and certainly would have concealed the fact that I had asked about him. But I said what I said because I could not help it."

"On that ground it may be excusable," I suggested.

"No, no," she protested. "It can be excused on no grounds. But I did it, and it can't be helped now. Without waiting for permission, he turned, and we walked together almost to Hamilton House. I suppose, under the circ.u.mstances, he considered it best not to ask for a permission which might have been refused, and from his standpoint doubtless he was right.

Take without asking seems to be man's best method with woman. When I saw we were approaching Hamilton House, I turned about for home, hoping, yet fearing, that he would not go back with me. But he did."

"Yes, you were sure to be disappointed in that respect," I answered. And she continued hastily:--

"Yes, he walked all the way with me. Before reaching Sundridge stile, I asked him to leave me. That was another mistake, for it gave to our meeting a clandestine appearance. He said my word was law to him, and that he would obey, though to do so, that is, to leave me, was pain, you understand."

"Yes, I can understand that he did not want to leave you," I answered.

But I saw that she had not finished, so I remained silent, and in a moment she continued:--

"He had been so respectful to me throughout that I thought him a modest, well-behaved gentleman, and--"

I laughed, interrupting her to explain: "All art, Frances, all art.

You'll find much of that manufactured modesty at court. It is the trump card in the game of love and is but a cloak for brazenness."

"Yes, I so found it," she answered, drooping her head, "for when he was about to leave me at a secluded spot, he took my hand and would have kissed me without so much as 'By your leave,' had I not caught his intent before it was too late. I drew away, inclined to be angry, and said, 'Sir, one may overrun one's course by going too fast.'"

"That truism, under like circ.u.mstances at court, would have made you famous," I said, pleased alike with her navete and her wisdom.

"I tried, with fair success, to appear offended," she continued, blushing deeply, "but the awful truth certainly is that I was not. I suppose it is true that women like boldness and do not find wickedness in men as distasteful as mothers say it is."

"On the contrary," I remarked, growing more and more delighted with her wisdom, innocence, and candor.

"Yes," she continued, blushing exquisitely, "even since you have told me how wicked he is, I am not sure that I like him less, though I fear him and shall avoid him as I should a pestilence."

"Ah, but will you, can you, Frances?" I asked.

"Indeed, yes, brother Ned, and if you doubt me, you don't know me," she returned.

"But do you know yourself?" I asked.

"Yes, now I do, thanks to your bravery," she answered.

"But you saw him many times after his first bold attempt," I suggested.

"Oh, it was easily forgiven," she returned, navely. "Yes, I have met him almost every day since then. The days I did not see him seemed to be blanks in my life. After his first boldness, he was always courteous. He never again became familiar, but seemed to try only to convince me of his regard in most respectful terms, and--and I listened all too willingly, but made no answer save what I could not conceal in my manner. That, I fear, was answer all too plain. But now you have opened my eyes, and I see clearly. I owe you a debt of grat.i.tude I can never repay."

"If you go to court, this affair will have been a good lesson," I returned encouragingly. "For there you must learn to despise the proffered love of men, whether it be pretended or real, until one comes who is worthy of you in person, wealth, and station."

"Yes, I shall," she answered earnestly. "But here we are at home. As you suggest, let us not speak of this poor little affair."

"By no means," I answered, as I opened the gate.

"And Baron Ned," she said, holding me back for a moment, "have no fear that I shall lose my heart at court to the detriment of my fortune. I may not consider myself--only my father and my house. It is my duty to make him happy, and I am going to do it without regard to any other purpose in life. My having known Master Hamilton will not only keep other men out of my heart, but will help me to know them and will lead me to fear them when I go to court."

Later in the evening my cousin and I walked out in town, and I had a long talk with her, partly concerning Hamilton, a theme to which she always returned, and partly concerning conditions she would meet if she became a maid of honor. And my faith in her grew as we talked.

That night I went to sleep convinced that my beautiful cousin was strong enough and shrewd enough to evade all the pitfalls of Whitehall, and that her experience with Hamilton had been the one thing needful to make her keenly alive to her danger. I felt that she was safe, but--

Near the hour of two o'clock the next afternoon, Sir Richard and I, returning from a short walk, did not find Frances at home, so I made my way to the Bourne Path, thinking it hardly possible that in the face of yesterday's events Frances could have gone to meet Hamilton. Still one can never tell; therefore I took the benefit of the doubt and set forth to make sure.

When perhaps two miles from Sundridge, the day being warm, I climbed to a ledge of rock on the shelving bank of the bourne, twelve or fifteen feet above the path, and sat down to rest in the cool shade of a clump of bushes. Below me, perhaps five or six feet above the path and far enough back among the bushes to be hidden from pa.s.sers-by, was another rocky shelf or bench, admirably fitted to accommodate two persons.

Sarah had told me, after much questioning, that Frances had left home only a few minutes before Sir Richard and I had returned. I had walked rapidly, and as I had not overtaken her, I concluded I was on the wrong scent.

Within ten minutes I discovered that I was not on the wrong scent, for, much to my surprise, sorrow, and disgust, I saw Frances and Hamilton come around a turn in the path, push aside the bushes as though they knew the place, enter the dense thicket bordering the path, and sit down on the rocky bench beneath me. My first impulse was to speak, but for many reasons I determined to listen. Silence reigned below me during the next minute or two, and then Hamilton spoke:--

"You must deem me a coward, Mistress Jennings, since I did not call your cousin to account for what he said yesterday?"

"No," she answered. "It was brave of you to refrain. It must be a great deal easier for a gentleman to resent an insult than to endure it. My cousin said as much to me yesterday evening. He said he had always known that you were brave, but that he had not expected to find in you the moral courage to bear his words with equanimity. He also said he was glad he did not have to meet you in a duel, because you were so greatly his superior with the sword. It was brave of you not to challenge him.

Perhaps it was on my account you desisted."

"No, it was because I respected him far more than any man I have ever known, and because he told the truth. Do not speak of my bravery in the same breath with his. He was as cool as though he were telling an amusing story."