She drew his face down to hers and kissed his lips, till from very fear of himself he thrust her from him and led her weeping to the outer door.

When Frances came out to Betty and me, she was holding her handkerchief to her eyes and her vizard was hanging by its chain.

Sympathetic Betty lifted the vizard, saying:  “Cover your face till we go to my room.  Poor mistress!  It must be all awry with your love, and I have heard that there is no pain like it.”

We climbed the steps, and, as we were going across the yard, Betty twined her arm about Frances’s waist.  Wishing to comfort her by changing the subject, she said:—­

“I have neither powder nor rouge in my room, but I have black patches, though I have never dared to use one, fearing to be accused of aping the great ladies.”

“Betty, there are no great ladies so good and beautiful as you,” said Frances, trying to check her weeping.  “If I were a man, you should not go long without a chance for a husband.”

“Oh, I’ve had chances in plenty,” answered Betty, proudly.  “But father says I’m too hard to suit and will die a maid.  He says I want a gentleman, and—­” (Here she sighed and glanced involuntarily toward me.) “He is right.  I will have none other.”

“Seek lower and fare better,” said Frances.

“I don’t know how it will all turn out,” replied Betty with a sigh.  The topic seemed to be alive with sighs.  “A woman may not choose, and I suppose I shall one day take the man my father chooses, having no part in the affair myself, though it is the most important one in my life.”

“Nonsense, Betty,” returned Frances.  “You are like the rest of us, and when the right one comes, you will seek him if need be—­in a cellar.  Take my advice, Betty, when the right one comes, help him, and thank me ever after.”

When we entered the house, Frances went with Betty to her room, leaving me in the tap-room, waiting to take my foolish cousin home.

To say that I was troubled would feebly express my state of mind.  All my dreams of fortune for Frances and glory for her family had vanished.  I did not know at that time that she and Hamilton had agreed never to meet again, though had I known, I should have put little faith in the compact.

CHAPTER VIII

IN FEAR OF THE KING

When Frances came downstairs, she and I started home, walking first down Gracious Street, and then through Upper Thames Street toward Temple Bar.  It was no time to scold her, since I was sure that she knew quite as well as I could tell her the folly and the recklessness of what she had just done.  I also believed there must have been an overpowering motive back of it all, and that being true, I knew that nothing I could say would in any way induce her to repent at present or forbear in future.  I might bring her to regret, but regret is a long journey from repentance.  If her heart had gone so far beyond her control as to cause her to seek Hamilton, as she had done that day, it were surely a profitless task for me to try to put her right.  If she, who was modest, honest, and strong, could not right herself, trying as I knew she had tried, no one else could do it for her.