Part 15 (2/2)
”Have your way, Betty,” answered good-natured Nell. ”And Betty dear, I was only teasing you about the table linen.”
”I understand. Just a little sport with the barmaid,” returned Betty, a note of sarcasm ringing sharply in her usually soft voice.
”Yes, Betty. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Here are two guineas.”
”I don't want them,” answered Betty, clasping her hands behind her.
”Again forgive me,” said Nelly. ”I have been wrong altogether in my opinion of you. You are a good, beautiful girl, and I'm coming back to see you very soon.”
”Please don't come on my account, Mistress Gwynn,” returned Betty.
”No, I shall come on my account,” replied Nell, coaxingly. ”I'll go now for fear of making more trouble for you, but I intend to be your friend, and you shall be mine. When Nelly makes up her mind to have a friend, she always has her way. Good-by, Betty.”
Betty courtesied, and Nelly left the Old Swan, returning at once to Frances, who was waiting in the barge. On their way back to the palace neither Frances nor Nelly spoke after Nelly had told what she had heard at the inn. Usually Nelly was laughing or talking, or both, and when a woman of her temperament is silent, she is thinking. In this instance her thinking brought her to two conclusions: first, that Hamilton was the man Frances loved and hated; and second, that it was his face she had recognized on the night Roger Wentworth was killed.
The dangerous element in these calculations was that they were sure to reach the king's ear as soon as Nelly found an opportunity to impart them. It were treason to withhold from his Majesty such a tearing bit of scandal. She had no reason to suspect that the telling of what had happened and of what she had deduced would bring trouble to Frances and George. She simply knew that the king would be vastly pleased with the story, and her only purpose in life was to give him pleasure. How well she pleased him in this instance and the result of her innocent effort to make him happy will soon appear.
The day after the adventure of Frances and Nelly at the Old Swan, I had business with Backwell, the goldsmith, and when I had disposed of my matters, I walked over to the Old Swan near by to eat a grilled lobster, a dish for which the inn was famous. I knew nothing of the trouble that had occurred the day before, not having seen my cousin, nor did I know that Hamilton was in London, not having seen nor heard from him since Frances's arrival at court.
By far my greatest motive in going to the Old Swan was to see Betty, whose beauty and sweetness had begun to haunt me about that time.
If Mary Hamilton had shown me the least evidence of warmth, my admiration for Bettina, perhaps, would have remained merely admiration. But in view of Mary's admirable self-control, I found myself falling into a method of thought morally then prevalent with all modish men. I confess with shame that I hoped to have Mary for my wife and Bettina to love me and to be loved. I did not know Betty then, and have regretted all my life that once I looked upon her as--well, as a barmaid. While I thoroughly realized that she was an unusual girl in many respects, still I held to a theory then prevalent that barmaids were created to be kissed.
When I reached the Old Swan, I chose a table in a remote corner of the tap-room, ordered a lobster from one of the maids, and, while waiting for it, drank a cup of wormwood wine.
The place seemed dingy and drear with its great ceiling beams of time-darkened oak, its long, narrow windows of small square panes, its black fireplace, lifeless without the flames, and its dark, grim mahogany bar stretching halfway across the south side of the room. The white floor, well sanded and polished, seemed only to accentuate the general gloom, and the great clock, ticking solemnly behind the bar, seemed to be marking time for a funeral dirge. But suddenly all changed to brightness when Betty entered. Pickering was talking to me, standing between me and the girl, so that she did not see me when she first came into the room.
She stepped behind the bar for some purpose and called to her father, who started to go to her, but before he reached her she looked up and saw me.
In a moment she was by my side, smiling and dimpling in a manner fit to set the heart of an anchorite a-thumping.
”I came for a lobster, Betty,” I said, taking her hand, ”and to see you.
I was afraid you might forget me.”
”The Old Swan is likely to forget you, Baron Ned,” she answered, withdrawing her hand, ”if you don't come to see us oftener.”
”Ah, Betty, you're a mercenary bit of flesh and blood. Always looking out for customers,” I returned, shaking my head.
”Yes,” she replied, laughing softly. ”And--and very sorry when certain customers come so seldom.”
Had she spoken glibly, her words would have meant nothing, but there was a hesitancy, a pretty fluttering in her manner which pleased me, so I was emboldened to say:--
”I hope I am one of the 'certain customers,' Betty.”
Again she laughed softly, as she answered, ”Yes, Baron Ned, _the_ certain one.”
”Do you mean, Betty, that I am the 'certain one' for the Old Swan or for Betty?” I asked.
She was standing near me, and I again caught her hand, but it was not a part of Betty's programme to be questioned too closely, so she withdrew her hand, saying, ”I must go.”
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