Evening Star Newspaper, August 14, 1897, Page 18

18 “SHREWSBURY” ee BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN. (Copyrighted, 1897, by Stanley J. Weyman.) Written for The Evening Star. Continued From Last Saturday's Star. On that the man with the wand stood aside—still a little doubtfully—and let us P: and, my patron preceding me, we went up a wide stairense and aiong a silent corridor and through one or two swing doors, the duke seeming to be con- versant with the house. it was impossible rot to admire the somber richness of the carved fnrulture, which stood here and there in the corridor, or the grotesque de- igus and eastern ccloring of the chinaware ard Mogul idols that peered from the cor- Ters or rose boldly on brackets. Such a mode of furnishirg was new to me, but neither its novelty nor the evidences of alth and taste which abundantly met eye impressed me so deeply as the still- which everywhere prevailed, and ped so much a part of the pluce when his grace opened the second his exploits when they, ci William and the like, speaking ffi terms un- worthy of # sovereign, and as if he had drawn his blecd from that merchant race, instead of—as the fact was—from the princely houses of Stuart, Bourbon, Nas- sau and Medici, and from such ancestors as the noble Coligny and King Charles the Martyr. But of his birth enough. For the rest, having a story to tell and rot history to write, I refrain from recall- ing how great he was as a statesman, how resourceful as a strategist, how indomi- table as a commander, how vallant whén oceasion required In the pitched field. Nor Is it necessary, seeing that before the rise of my Lord Marlborough (who still sur- es, but alas, quantum mutatus ab illo!) he had no rivai in any of these capacities, nor In the first will ever be excelled. Nor, as a fact, looking on him in the flesh as I then did for the first time, can I say that I saw anything to betoken greatness, or the least outside evidence of the jlery spirit that twice in two great wars stayed all the power of Louis and of France; that saved Holland; that united ail Europe in three great leagues; finally that, leaping the bounds of the probable, won a kingdom, only to hold it cheap and as a means to further ends. I say I saw in him not the least trace of this, but only a plain, thin, “WILL THAT SUIT swing door and the shrill, piping voice of 4 child crowing and laughing in an ecstasy of infantile pleasure, came forth and met I started as if a gun had exploded. 1 know now that the sound, by giving my atron assurance that he whom he sought ps was not there, but in his closet, led to my } admission, and that without that assur- ance my lord would have left me to wait at the door. As it was he said nothing to me, but went on; and ® foliowing him in my innocence through the deorway, came at the same moment he did on a scene as Tare as it is by me weil remembered. We stood on the threshold of a wide and splendid gallery, set here and there with great china vases, and hung with pictures which even then I discerned to be of great beauty, and afterward learne] were of no less rar Letting my eyes travel down this vista, they paused naturilly at a spot jer on= of the windows where, with his ack to us and ribbons in his hands, a slight gentleman beyond middle age, and dressed in black, ambled and paced in front of a child four or five yers old. The wintry sunlight, which fell in cold bars on the flocr, proved his progress to be more showy than real, nevertheless the child shrieked in its joy, and, dancing, jerked the ribbons and waved a little whip, in re- sponse to which the gentleman, whose long curled periwig bobbed oddly on his shoul- ders—he had his back to us—pranced more stoutly, though on legs a little thin and ‘vent. A long moment I stared at this picture, little thinking on what I gazed. nor was It until a gentleman seated at a side table not from the pair rose hurriedly from his 2ir and with a guttural exclamation ne toward us, that I remarked this third mpant of the gallery. When I did so it cern that ne was angry, and that taken aback and disturbed. ed to me that my patron made a hasty movement to withdraw. Before he could do so, however, or I, whe behind him barred the way, could take the hint, the gentleman in black, warned of our pres- ence by the other’s exclamation, turned to us, and still standing and holding the rib- bons in his hands, looked at us. He had a long, sallow. face, which seem- ed the sallower for the dark, heavy wig that feil round it; a large hooked rose and full peevish lips, with eyes both bright and morose. I am told that he seldom smiled, and never laughed, and that while the best tales of King Charles's court passed round him, he would stand abstracted, or on occa- sion wither the teller by a silent nod. The court wits whe dubbed my Lord Notting- ham Don Dismalio could find no worse title for him. Yet that he had a well of humor, deeply hidden and rarely drawn upon, ho one could doubt who saw him ap- flicker of dry amusement in his eyes giving the lie to his pursed-up lips and the grimness of his visage. “Your gra ys welcome,” he said, speaking in Engiish, a little broken and guttural. “And yet—you might have come More apropos, I confess. “A thousand pardons, sir,” my lord an- swered, bowing until his knee well nigh touched the ground. “I thought that you were in your closet, sir, or I should have taken your pleasure before I intruded.” ut you have news? sir.” And this person” “is concerned. my Lord Buck, and he turned ed the child who was still tug- the ribbons, “il faut partir! r me? You must go. I have busine: The child looked at him boldly. ii?" said he Oui! Say merci, and go.” monsieur,” the boy ans’ then to us with a solemn nod, » for my chevaux!”” ‘heval!” corrected the gentle- man in black. “And be off." Apprised by what I heard not only tha: J stood in the galiery of Kensington court—a mansion which his majesty had lately bought from Lord Nottingham and made his favorite residence—but that the gentle- man in black whom I had found so simply employed was no other than the king him- self, | ask you to imagine with what inter- est I looked upon him. He, whom the old King of France had dubbed in bitter deri- sion the ittle squire of Breda,” and whom two revolutions had successively created Stadtholder of Holland and sever- eign of these isles, was at this time forty- six years old, already prematurely bent, and a prey to the asthma which afflicted his later life. Reserved in manner and somber, not to say melancholy, in aspect, hiding strong passions behind a pale mas« ef stoicism, as chilling to his friends as ii ‘was baffling to his enemies, he was such @s a youth spent under the eyes of watch- ful foes and a manhood in the prosecution of weishty and secret designs made him. Descended on the one side from William th= Silent, on the other from the Great Henry of France, he was thought to exhibit in more moderate degree the virtues and fail- which marked those famous princes, and to represent, not in blood only, but in his fortunes, the two soldiers of the six- teenth and pre Do Go, petit “Faut- ill in defeat still passed for a who. frequently beaten in the . not seldom garnered the fruits of the paign, and rose, Antaeus-like, the nger from every fall. ‘That, in all stations, as a private person, @ stadtholder and a king, his lat majesty remeybered the noble sources whence he sprang was proved, I think, not only by the exactness with which his life was wrought to the pattern of those old mot- toes of his house: “Saevus tranquillus in Undis” and “Tandem fit Sureulus arbor”. whereof the former was borne, I have read, by the Taciturn, and the latter by Maurice of Nassau—but by two other particulars which I crave leave to mention. The first ‘Was that more majorum he took naturally and from the first the lead as the champion of Protestant religion in Europe; the second, that though he had his birth in a republic, and was called to be king by election (s0 that it was no uncommon thing ,for some of his subjects to put slights upon him as litile more than their equal; aye, and though he had to bear silence), he had the true spirit and pride of a king born in the purple and by right divine, insomuch that many attributed to this the gloom and reserve of his manners, century whose courage in disaster | YOUR LORDSHIP?” grave and rather peevish gentleman, in | black and a large wig, who coughed much between his words, spoke with a foreign ace and often lapsed into French or | Some strange tongue. ; _ He waited until the door had fallen to bebind the child and the long gallery lay | silent, and then bade my lord speak. “I breathe better here,” he said. “I hate small rooms. What is the news you have | brought?” (0 good news, sir,” my patron answer- ed. “And yet I can scarcely call it bad. In the country it will have a good effect.” “Bien! But what is it?” have seen Ferguson, sir.” “Then you have seen a d—d scoundrel!” the king exclaimed, with an energy I had not expected from him, and, indeed, outbreaks were rare with him. “He is ar- rested, then?” “No, sir,” the duke answered. “I trust, however, that he will be before night.” “But if he be free, how came you in his company”” the king asked, somewhat sharply. My lord hesitated and seemed for a mo- ment at a loss how to answer. Being behind him, I could not see his face, but I fan- cied that he grew red, and that the fourth person present, a stout, burly gentleman, marked with tke smallpox, who had ad- VYanced and now stood near the king, was hard put to {t not to smile. At last, “I re- ceived a letter, sir,” my lord said, speak- ing stiffly, and with contsraint, “purporting to come from a third person—” “Ah!” said the king, drawling the word and nodding dry comprehension. “On the faith of which, believing it to be from that other—if you understand, sir—" “I understand perfectly,” said the king, and he coughed. “IT was induced,” my lcrd said, doggedly, “to give the villain a meeting. And learned, sir, partly from him and partly from this man here”—this more freely—‘‘enough to corroborate the main particulars of Mr. Prendergast’s story.” “Ah!” said the King. “Good! particulars?” “That Sir George Barclay, the person mentioned by Mr. Prendergast, is giving nightly rendezvous in Covent Garden to | persons, mainly from France, who are be- | ing formed by him into a band, the design, as stated by Prendergast, to fall on your majesty’s person in the lane between Ful- hem Green and the river en your return from hunting.” “Does he agree as to the names?” king asked, looking at me. “He knows no names, sir,” the duke an- swered, “but he saw a number of the con- spirators at the Seven Stars In Covent Gar- | den last night, and heard them speak open- ly of a hunting party, with other things pointing the same way.” “He can speak to a person who I think can be identified as Barclay,” my lord an- swered. “He cannot speak to Charnock—” “That is the Oxford man?” “Yes, sir—or Porter, or King, or the oth- ers by those names, but he can speak to two of them under the names by which Prendergast said that they were passing.” “Voila! It does not seem to me to be so simple,” the king said, with a touch of im- patience. “‘Wkat is this person’s name, and who is he?” The duke told him, and that I had been Ferguson’s tool. “That rogue is in it, then?” “He is privy to it,” the duke answered. His majesty shrugged his shoulders, as if the answer annoyed him. “You English draw fine distinctions,” he said. “What- ever ycu do, however, let us have no repe- ution of the Lancashire flasco. You will Lear that in mind, my lord, if you please. Arother of Taafe’s pseudo plots would do us more harm in the country than the loss of a battle in Flanders. Faugh! We have knaves at home, but you have a breed here =your Oateses and your Taafes and your Fullers—for whom breaking on the wheel is too gocd.” “There are rogues, sir, in all countries my lord answered, somewhat tartly. “I do not know that we have a monopoly of them.”” “The Duke of Shrewsbtry is right there, sir,” the gentleman behind the king who had not yet spoken struck In, in a good- natured tone. “They are things of which pore is no scarcity anywhere. I remem- ede “Taisez! Taisez!"" cried the king, brusque- ly, cutting short his reminiscences, whereat the gentleman, smiling imperturbably, took snuff. “Tell me this. Is Sir John Fenwick implicated?” “There may be evidence against him,” my lord answered, cautiously. The king sneered openly. “Yes,” he said, “I see Porter and Goodman and Charnock are guilty. But when it touches one of yourselyes, my lord, then ‘There is evi- dence against him,’ or ‘It is a case of sus- picion,” cr—Oh, you all hang togethe1 and pursing up his lips, he looked sourly at us. “You all hang together,” he repeated. itand to be shot at—c’est dommage. But touch a noble, and Gare la Noblesse “You do us an injustice, sir!” my lord cried, warmly. “I will answer for it——* “Oh, I do you an injustice, do [2° the | King sald, disregarding his last words. “Of course I do! Of course, you are all faith- ful, most faithful. You have all taken the oaths. But I tell you, my Lord Shrewsbury, the king to whom you swear allegiance. the king crowned in '89, was not William III, but Noblesse I! La Noblesse! Yes, my lord, you may look at me, and as angry | as you like, but it was so. Par dieu et diable, you tie my hand: You tie my hands, you cling to my sword, you choke my purse. I had as much power in Hol- land I have bere. And more! And mo! He would have gone further, and with the same candor, I think, but at that ‘the gentleman who had interrupted him before struck in again, addressing him rapidly in what I took to be Dutch, and doubtless pointing out the danger of too great open- ness. At any rate, I took that to be the gist of his words, not only from his inan- | ner, but from the fact that when he. had done—the king looked ch And the the feelings will go no further.” ‘The duke bowed. “Your majesty aut ithor- izes me to take the necessary steps, then,” , THE EVENING STAR. SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 1807-24 PAGES. | qualities which fit you for your part,” he sald, sadly. “I have not.” “Have I?” The king said no more, but the gesture with which he held-out his hands, as if he you, my Jord,” he continued rapidly, a4= dressing the gentleman beside him, whom: Portiand; LE now conjectured to be Lord try. And that, I think, opinion?” <i “It should, sir. Doubtless, sir, we Eng- lish have our faults, but we are not fond of assassins.” “And are you confident that this is no bubble?” the king said, thoughtfully. “Yes, sir, I am.” By this time Lord Portland had with- | drawn through a door at the further end’ of the gallery. The king had taken a turn this way and that, with his hands clasped behind him, and his head bent lew, so that his great wig almost hid his features, seemed to be lost in thought. After wait- ing a moment the duke coughed, and this failing tq attract the king’s attention, he ventured to address him. “There is an- other matter I have to mention to you, sir,” he said, with a touch of constraint in his tone. The king paused in his walk and looked sharply at him. “Ah, of course,” he said, nodding. “Did you see Lord Middleton?” The duke could not hide a start. “Lord Middleton, sir?’ he faltered. The king smiled coldly. ‘The letter,” he said, ‘wes from him, I suppose?” My lord rallied himself. ‘No, sir, it was not,” he answered, with a flash of spirit. “It purported to be from him.” “Yet you went—wherever you went— thinking to see him?” his majesty contin- ued, smiling rather disagreeably. “I did,” my lord answered, his tone be- traying his agitation. “But to do nothing to the prejudice of your service, sir, and what I could to further your interests-— short of giving him up. He is my rela- tive.” The king shrugged his shoulders. “And for years,” my lord cried warmly, “was my intimate friend.” The king shrugged his shoulders again. “We have fought that out before,” he said, with a sigh of weariness. ‘And more than once. For the rest, in that connection and whatever others may say, Lord Shrewsbury has no ground to complain of me.” “I have cause, sir, to do far otherwise!” th duke answered in a tone suddenly changed and so full of emotion that it was not difficult to discern that he had forgot- ten my presence, which was not wonder- ful, as I stood behind him in the shadow of the doorw: whither out of modesty I had retreated. “God knows I remember it,” he continued. ‘Were it not for that—if I were not bound to your majesty by more than common ties of gratitude, I should not be today in a service which—for which I am unfit. The daily duties of which, per- formed by other men with indifference or appetite, fill me with pity and distaste! The risks attending which—I speak without ceremony, sir—make me play the coward with myself a hundred times a day!” “Caesar,” the king said quietly, none but Caesar call him coward!” Kindly as the words were uttered, and in a tone differing much from that which the king had hitherto used, the duke took no heed of them. “Others wish for my place; God knows I wish they had it!” he cried, his agitation growing rather than decreas- ing. ‘Every hour, sir, I pray to be quit of the faction and perjury in which 1 live! Every hour I loathe more deeply the work I have to do and the people with whom I have to do it. I never go to my office but my gorge rises; nor leave it but I see the end. And yet I must stay in it! I must stay in it! I tell you, sir,” he continued impetuously, ‘on the day that you burned those letters you but freed me from one slavery to fling me into another!” “Yet an honest one!” said the king in a peculiar tone. My lord threw up his hands. “You have a right to say that, sir. But if any one else—or, no I—I forgot myseJf!”” “Something hes disturbed you,” said the king, intervening with much kindness. “Take time! And in the meanwhile listen to me. As to the general distaste you ex- press for my service, I will not, and I do not, do you the injustice to attribute it— whatever you say yourself—to your fears of what may happen in a possible event;“I mean l'ancien regime restitue. If such fears weighed so heavily with you, you would neither have signed the invitation to me nor come to me eight years ago. But I “lets take it, with perhaps some apprehensions:| of this kind, you have—and this is the real gist of the matter—a natural distaste for affairs and a natural proneness to be on gcod terms with all, rogues as well as men. It irks you to sign a death warrant, to send one to Newgate and another to— bah, I forget the names of your prisons; to know that your friends abroad are not as well placed at St. Germains as they were at St. James! You have no care to push an advantage, no anxiety to ruin a rival; you would rather trust a man than bind him. In a word, my lord, you have no taste for public life in dangerous and troubled times such as these; although, perforce, you have played a high part tn It.” “Sir!” the duke cried, with an anxiety and eagerness that touched me, “you know me better than I know myself. You see my failings, my unfitness, and surely, seeing them so clearly, you will not refuse to—" “Release you,” the king sald, smiling. “That does not follow. For consider, my lord, you are not the only one in the worid who pursues perforce a path for which he has little taste. To be King of England has a higher sound than to the stadtholder of Holland. But to be a king and no king, to see your way clearly, and be thwarted by those who see no foot in the field; to have France by the throat and be baffied for the lack of 10,000 men or 1,000,000 guild- ers; above all, to be served by men who have made use of you—who heve one foot on either shore, and having betrayed their old master to gain their ends, would now betray you to save their necks—this, too, forms no bed of roses! But I He on it. I lie _on it,” he concluded, phlegmatically, and as he spoke he took a pinch of snuff. “To Take the Air.” my lord,” he continued, “to be hat the world calls high, is to be “You, sir, have those “In fine, —_ or unhappy.” ‘The. duke sighed. bade the other mark his feebleness, his short breath, his hacking cough, his pual- lor, had more meaning than many words. “No, my lord,” he continued, after a pause, “I cannot releaso you. I cannot afford to release you, because I canno? afford to lose the one man who does not day by day be- tray me—and who never has betrayed me.” “I would to heaven,” the duke cried, was noth- ing, and it is forgotten. I have long ceased to think of it. But c’est vrai. I remember, when I say I can jeust no one else, I do my Somers an injustice. He is a dry man, however, like myself, and poor com- pany, and so does not count for much.” ‘My lerd, Seer with hts feeling, did an .f think, with the tn- [carry out the bar- le, sir,” the duke said having «:ven your Hl the tale! Well, no, for the hing answeret. “The e, was for raining you i the news, and for-damn- E Jaines if you informed, id-mot think likely, but e Would have-a iol on you.” ‘The duke, fa tone of much surprise, ac- knowledged that he had guessed rightiy. “Well, it was @ very pretty dilemma,” said the king, with a.scrt of gusta. “And where ts M. Fiyzjames in hiding?” ‘At Dr. Lioyd’s in Hogsden Gar.ens,” my lord answered. But he could not con- ceal his gloom. eae “He must -be arrested,” satd the king. “A warrant must be issued. -Will you see to it with the others?” My lord assented, but with such a sigh that it required no wizard to discern both the cloud that hung over him, and also that now he had done what_Ferguson fad dared him to do, the consequence lay heavy on him. The king, after considering him a moment, with a singular expression, be- tween amusement and reproach, broke the silence. “See here, my. lor@,” he said, with good nature. “I will tell you what to do. Sit down now and here and write a line to monsieur, bidding him begone, and send it by a private hand, and the warrant by a messenger an-hour later.” The duke stared at the king in astonish- ment. “But he will escape; sir,” he fal- tered. a “So much the better,” the king answer- ea indifferently. “If we take him, what are we to do with him? Besides, to tell you the truth, my lord, he did me a great ser- vice eight years ago.” “He, sir?” “Yes,” said the king, smiling. “He in- ducefl his father to fly the country, when if he had stayed—but you know that story. So do you warn him, and the sooner he is beyond La Manche the better.” Still the duke looked unhappy. “I dare not do it, sir,” he said at last, after a pause. “Dare not do it? When I authorize it? Why not?” “No, sir; because if I were impeached by the commons—” The king shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, these safeguards!” he muttered. “These town councils and provincial councils and states general! And now these commons and lords! Shall I ever be quit of them? Well, there is but one way, then: I must do it. If they impeach me I go back to Loo; and they may stew in their ewn juice!” He rose with that, and, moving stiffly to the table at which Lord Portland had been writing when he entered, he sought for and found a pen. Then sitting in the chair, which the groom of the stole had left va- cant, he tore a slip of paper from a folio before him, and, writing some lines on it— about six, as far as I could judge—handed the paper to the duke, who had remained standing at a formal distance. “Voila, monsieur,” he said. suit your lordship? The duke took it respectfully and looked at it. “But, sir, it is in my name!” he cried, aghast. ‘And bears my signature.” “Eh, Ben, why not?’ his majesty an- swered lightly. ‘The name fs the name of Jacob, but the hand is the hand of Esau. Take it and send it by a trusty messenger. Perhaps the man who came with you, and you—pheugh, my'lord, I had forgotten that this person was here! We have spoken too freely.” The oath which the duke let fall as he turned and the face of dismay and anger with which he ‘gazed on me were proof enough that he shared the king’s opinion, as he had shared his mistake. For a mo- ment, the two glaring at me. with equal dis- gust and. vexation, I thought I should sink into the floor. Then the king beckoned to me to come'forward. And I obeyed him. Chapter XXV.. The od¢ and unexpected gitmpse of gener- osity which thé: king had allowed to es-. cape him in his interview with the duke somewhat lessened the fears I must other- wise have entertained at that moment. To which must be added that I am one of those who, when violence dhd physical danger are not in questton, retain a fair mastery of their minds. Nevertheless, I am free to confess that as I went forward 1 wished myself anywhere else in the world, and would have sacrificed half my remaining economies to be seated, pen in hand, and obscurely safe in Mr. Brome’s room. . But the thing took a turn which relieved me when I least expected it. As I ap- proached, the chagrin in the king’s face gave place to a look of surprise; and that again, but more slowly, to one of intelli- “Will that gence. “Ah, Je_me trompais!” he mut- tered rapidly. “What did you say his name wes?” “Price,” the duke answered, continuing to glower at me. “Price?” Ah, cela va sans dire! But—he is a cadet—a dependent? He is some way cennected—how do you say it—related to your family?” “To mine, sir!’ the duke exclaimed in a voice of the utmost astonishment; and he drew himself up as if the king had pricked him. “N'est-ce pas ca?” his majesty replied, looking from one to the other of us. “Yet he has So much a look of you that it might be possible in some lights to take him for your grace were he differently dressed!” The duke looked purely offerded. “Your majesty is under a strange misapprehen- sion,’ he said, very stiffly. “If this person resembles me—of which I was not aware— I know nothing of the cause, and the like- ness, for what it is worth, must be acci- dental. As a fact, I never saw him but once before in my life, sir, and that per- fectly by chance.” And he very briefly re- lated the circumstances under which we came together. The king listened to the story, but as if he scarcely believed it; and he smiled when the duke came to tell how he allowed me to escape. Then, “And you have never seen him: from that day to this?” he said incredulously. “Never!” satd the duke, positively. “But it is not my intention to lose sight of him again.” “Ah! the king said. “I have not told you, sir, all that hap- pened,” the duke continued, reading, I think, the king’s thoughts. “But, brietly, Mr. Ferguson, who has come to be little short of a made man, drew a pistol on me at the close of our interview,- and but for his friend here—who had been placed to listen, but at that broke from his place of hiding and knocked up the muzzle so that it exploded harmlessly—I should have come off ill.” “And I not much better,” the king said, ips grave. “You are un- nodding tnd look hurt?” : FE Pp if you retain hii ;, another face on it, and beside you, what he has now hi will he of the less importance. Hark you, my nd,” he continued, ad- dressing “ne, “cay you keep your mouth shut?” I said fumbly ‘that I could and would. Tpen taisez, tae aniswesed| of phat! e this letter to Hogs- den Gardens to Bishop Lloyd’ See Bishop Lioyd amd put it jn his hands. Say noth- ing, give'no mesSage, but go to your mas- ter's in St. Jamés’ square. Will you seal it, duke, ‘With @ plain seal? Good. And go you out, an, bythe way you came in, and answer mo questions. And now for the To say that I went from the presence without knowing how I did it> and when I reached the courtyard had t as I went I met one and another, passed the sentries and ran the gauntlet of curious eyes—for who that quits a court escapes that hn more conscious of the tjans made upon me, or the sur- prise 1 excited as I went by, that if I had really londs. Issuing from instinct rather than and hugging to which the -king—the me, made the best I had been wiser had I gone by the other and taken the alt fap tat En ee Pane 2508 a F to earth, a step which was hestened by a flash of recol- lection that showed me waiting at Clerkenwell gate, a little figure forlorn and desolate, yet with eyes of wrath and a face puckered with determination— when I came, I say, a little to myself and to think of Hogsden Gardens, and remem- bered that it lay on the farther side of town by Bunhill Fields, I was already at Tyburn turning, and it seemed to be no longer worth while to ride. The day was ‘on the wane, and the read thence to St. Giles’ pound was lively with persons come cut to take the air; through whom I threaded my way at @ g00d pace, and com- ing to Holborn without mishap, turned up Cow lane and so got speedily to Smithfield and across the market to Long lane, know- ae my way sd far without having need to asl Here, however, I took sudden fright. My mind, which, as I walked, had been busy with the girl and the steps I should take to find her—if, indeed, I wished to find her, about which I was puzzled, the surround- ing circumstances being so different—was invaded by the notion that I had been long on the road. To this was added next mo- ment the reflection that messengers sent to arrest the duke could, by taking a coach, forestall me. The thought threw me into a hot fit, which increased on me when I con- sidered that I did not know the remainder of the road, and might waste much time in tracing it. Naturally, my first impulse in this strait was to seek a guide, but Long lane by Smithfield is only one degree bet- ter than Whetstone Park, and I shrank from applying to the sots and drabs, who steod at the doors and corners or lounged out of the patched windows and lazily or rudely watched me go by. In this difficulty, and growing the more diffident and alarmed the more slowly I walked, I looked about eagerly for some person of passable aspect of whom I could inquire. I saw none, and my uncer- tain glances and loitering step were begin- ning to draw on me advances and an at- tention that were anything but welcome, when, reaching a corner where an alley, now removed—and I think it was then call- ed Dog alley—runs out of Long lane, I saw @ man, decently habited, come out of a house a little way down the alley. He closed the door sharply behind him, and us I looked, went off in the opposite direction. Here was my opportunity. Without los- ing a moment I ran after him, and he, hearing my steps, turned, and we came face to face. Then, when it was too late to retreat, I saw with unutterable dismay that the man I had stopped was no strang- er, but the person who had dressed me up the night before and taken me to the mys- terlous house in the suburbs—the man called Smith, whom I had first seen under the piazza in Covent Garden, and again in Ferguson's room. To come face to face with any one of the gang, with the knowledge that I had but now left the palace after informing against them, was of itself enough to make my knees tremble under me. But of this man, though his civil treatment had been in pleasant contrast to Ferguson's brutality, I had conceived an instinctive dread; based as much on his silence and reserve and a sort of quiet power with which I credited him, as on his contemptuous treatment of my tyrant. In a word, had I come on Fer- guson himself, I could scarcely have been more overcome. : On hearing my fcotsteps he had turned on me very sharply, with the air of a man who had no mind to be followed and no ou for followers. But on seeing who it wi his face grew light, and he whistled his surprise. “I was cn my way to you,” he said, “and here you are. That is good luck. I suppose Ferguson sent you?” “No,” I said, avoiding his eyes, and won- dering with inward quakings what was going to happen to me. “I—I lost iny road.” “Oh!” said he, and looked keenly at me. “Lost your road, did you? Well, it was very much to the purpose as it happened. May I ask where you were going?” I shifted my feet uneasily. “To Bunhill Fields,” I said, naming the first place of which I could think. “Ah!” he answered, with apparent care- SS; and though it seemed scarcely possible he should fail to observe the heat and disorder into which his presence had thrown me, he made no sign. “Well, you are not far out,” he continued, “and I will come with you. When you have done your errand we will tdlk over my business. This way. I know this end of the town well. And so it was not Ferguson,” he added, with a sharp look at me, “who sent you after me?” “No,” I said. “Nor his errand that brought you here?” “No,” I said again, my mouth dry. “And I need not give you the trouble to com? with me. I shall be taking you—” “Out of my way? Not at all,” he an- swered, briskly. “And it is no trouble. Come along, my friend.” I dared say no more, nor show farther reluctance; and so, with feet like lead and eyes roving furtively for a way of escape, I turned and went with him. Nay, it was not my feet only that were weighted; the letter, and my consciousness of it, lay so heavy on my mind it was like lead in the pocket. And in one I was indeed in a strait now! so difficult I could discern no way. out cf it; for though I could in part, and in part only, command my countenance, I failed absolutely to command my thoughts, which did nothing but revolve tumultuously about the words, ‘“‘What am I to do? What am I to do?’ Words that seemed written in red letters on my brain. Only one thing was clear to me in the confusion, and that was the urgent necessity I lay under of hiding my errand, the disclosure of which must carry with it the disclosure of the place whence I came and the company I had been keeping. With time to think, and coolness to distinguish, I should doubtless have seen the possibility of announcing my errand to the duke, yet laying it on Ferguson's shoulders; but pushed for time and unable at a pinch to weigh all the issues, [ could form no determination, much less one leading to so daring a-step. After one denial, that is. In the meantime we moved on; and at first my companion seemed to be uncon- scious of my sluggish pace and my per- turbation. But presently I felt rather than saw that from minute to minute he glanced at me askance, ard that after each of these inspections he laughed silently. The knewledge that I lay under these observa- tions immeasurably increased my embar- rassment; I could no longer put a fair face on the matter, but every time he looked at me looked away guiltily, unable to support his eyes. This presently grew so insup- portable that to escape from my embar- rassment I coughed and affected to choke. “You have a cold, I am afraid,” he said, searcely concealing the sneer in his tone. “And yet you look warm. You must have walked fast, my friend?” I muttered that I had. “To overtake me, perhaps? It was good of you,” he said in the same tone of secret badinage. “But we are here. What part of the fields do you want? Whitecross “No,” I muttered. “Then it must be Baxter's rents.” “Bunhill row?” “No.” “No? Well, there is not much else here,” he said, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Except the fields and the burial ground. Your business does not He with the latter, IT suppose?” “No,” I said faintly. And we stvod. At another time I must have shuddered at the dreary expanse that on this nether- most fringe of ‘the town stretched before us under a waning light, an expanse of waste land broken only by the wall of the burial ground or the chimney of a brick kiin, and bordered, where its limits were as the daylight that he saw through my piety “Where is it my lord’s pleasure to zo?” “To Brome’s, in Fleet street,” I said hoarsely. And if he had had his back to me at that instant and I a knife in my hand, I could have run him through. For as I sald it and he, with mocking suavity assented, and we stepped out together to re- turn the way we had come, through Long lane—over which the sky hung low in the dull, yellow haze, the last of the western light—I had a swift and stinging recollec- ‘tion of the king and my lord, and the letter ind the passage of time, and could have sprung from his side and poured out curses on him in the tmpotence of my rage and impatience. For the hour of grace which the king had granted was gone, and a second was passing, and still the letter that should warn the Duke of Berwick lay in my pocket, and I saw no chance of deliver- it. a (To be continued). ART AND ARTIST A good opportunity for the local sculp- tors to show their mettle is offered in the competition of sun-dial designs which is to be held under the direction of the National Sculpture Society. Through the generosity of Mr. T. Kelly, of New York, a prize of $500 is offered for the best design, and $250 for the second best. These prizes are not very large in themselves, but they are en- tirely independent of any compensation which the sculptor might receive for the subsequent reproduction of his design for actual use. In order to give the contestants ample time, the announcement has been made well in advance, and the display of the models will not be made until the Sculp- ture Society’s exhibition in 1898, The com- petition is dpen to all, and the designs may be sent in at any time during the months ef January and February next. The sun- Gial is, of course, to be placed out of doors, and the effect of the design under the play of the sunlight will be an important con- sideration. sy * x * Since his return from New York, where he spent the past winter in study at the Art Students’ League, Mr. Mills Thompson has been taking his vacation at home, save for a flying trip to some other city now and then. He has now gone to Deer Park and expects to remain there some time. Mr. Thompson’s posters are perhaps better known here than any other products of his brush, and before leaving the city he fin- ished a very decorative specimen of his work in this line. This effective poster is for Vondel’s Lucifer, a work translated from the Dutch, and the three colors that are employed—red, green and black—run riot over the paper. He has studied the display of color so as to give an extremely decorative effect, with due attention to the significance of the subject. For example, a sun which fills the background with its diverging rays, and is an indication of the high state from which the son of the morn- ing has fallen, is placed directly behind the figure of Lucifer, which is diabolical enough for the heavy villain in Faust. * x * Mr. Dunbar is now at work finishing a bronze -bas relief of Mr. John H. Russell, which is one of his best portraits in low relief. The subject is a good one for the hand of a scalptor. The prominent eye- brows, sheltering deep-set eyes, catch one’s attention at once, and the contour of the face, as seen in the profile, is interesting. The beard was excellently modeled in the clay, and came out clear and crisp in the metal casting. An interesting thing about this bas relief is that it is the first bronze that Mr. Dunbar has been able to have cast in the city. Heretofore ail such work has been sent elsewhere, but Mr. Ennis, who made this cast here, managed, after sev- eral failures, and after receiving the bene- fit of the sculpter’s suggestions, to secure @ very fair specimen. * x * Mrs. Josepha Whitney is with her hus- band’s family at Wainscott, L. L, and has been spending her time in recreation and occasional sketching. While not possessing many natnral advantages, Long Island has always been a favorite spot for out-door workers, and the colony of art students at Shinnecock becomes larger every year. * * * Two of the most promising of the stu- dents at the Art League in this city, John C. Clay and Jerome P. Uhl, have been spending the summer months at Ingles- mere, Pa., in work which is a source both pleasure and profit. Both are much interested in, and successful with, pen-and- ink work, and with the co-operation of others who are equally interested in art they organized a sketch club for figure drawing. With the poses frequently given in the open air, they were able to study entirely different effects from the indoor wcrk of the winter, and when not draw- ing from the figure. had opportunity for any amount of landscape work. Mr. Clay Was the scholarship student from the Art Students’ League here to the larger ins‘i- tution in New York last year, and both he and Mr. Uhl expect to study there next winter. * * * Mr. Carl Weller left a few days ago for a sketching trip in the north, and will doubtless bring back, as always, a fine col- lection ef water colors and oils. He will go first te York, Maine, and after a short stay there will leave for East Gloucester, Mess., a visit to which he almost always includes in his summer vacation. There are so many motives there just suited to the breezy aquarelles that he dashes off with such speed and yet with such entire success. * ** Miss M. G. Irwin, who has been lving in Pittsburg for the past year, returned several weeks ago, and has been experi- menting with Washington as a summer resort. She brought with her comparative- ly few specimens of the work she did in the smoky city, but among these are sev- eral very nice examples of china decora- ticn, which, together with miniatures, oc- cupled a large part of her time while auay. She is especially successful in quaint figure decorations suggestive of Watteau’s graceful groups. Qne effective vase has a beautiful auburn-haired girl upon one side and a dainty violet design upon the cther. —— Plenty, From Haurper’s Bazar. 1.50 AM. week e 7 EXERESS. 20.50 S3Dragasrtvania- Loerie Fa ma ‘Smoking and (beervation Cars Baribare te Oblong Cincinoatl. Todizaay- "6 oh = Pa > A.M. FAST LINE.—Pullman fet Parlor Gar 10 Harcsburg. ~ Buffet Parlor Car Harrisoorg to St. al and Dining Cx: |. Louls, Ville (via Clocianath and Gives 7.10 P.M. W EXPRESS.—Palt ane ing Car to Pittsburg, Chicago and Harrisburg ESS. —Puliman Cleveland. Dining Car to 7.10 P.M. SOUTIT EX! Ing Cars Woshingion to Pictsvurg and Har to St. Leuls and Cincinnati. ing Oar, PACIFIC EXPRESS. jaan é risbur 40 Cannndai ma, Rochester and « is and Rehovo @afly, except r Williamsport daily, ru. Williameport, Rochester, Exie, But Falls dally, except Saturday, ws on te Buffalo. 10.40 P.M. for Erie and Elmira dally; for ¢: datgua, Rochester, Buffalo and Niagara Falls Sat- orday wights only: Pullman Sh Car Wash- ington to Rochester. FOR PHILADELPHIA, NEW YORK AND THB 4.00 P.M. “CONGRESSIONAL LIMITED,” dafly, ail Parlor Cars, with Dining Car from Dalticoore: 7.00 (Dr iT), 8.00, 9.00, 10.00 @ining Car) and 11.00 (ining Cat from Wil- mington) A.M., 12.45. 3.15. 4.20, 10.00 and 11 On Sunday. 7.00 Wining Car trom, ed). . 4.3 : 0, 10.40, 11.15 and 11.85 ‘On iy, 7.00, 8.00, 9.00, 9.05, 10.50, 11.00 AM, 12.15, 1.15, 5.40, 6.15, 2.01, 3.15, 8.40 (4.00 Limited), 4 20, 6.50, 7.10, 10.00, 10.40 and 11.25 PM. Pope's Creek Line, 7.50 A.M. and 4.86 PM. ily. excopt Sunday. Sundays, 9.05 AM. For Annapolis, 7.00, 9.00 A.M., 12:5 and 4.20 PM, =. except Sunday. Si and . ‘Coast ee 7 cones for Florida an4 points on Atlantic Const Line, 4.50 A 46 P.M. daily; Richmond only, 1 Atlanta Special, via Richmond ays, 9 4 Atlant AM. “week days: and Seaboard Air Tine, 4.40 P.M. daily. Accommodation for Quantico, 7.45 A.M. daily and 4.25 P.M. week days. SEASHORE CONNECTIONS. For Atlantic City (via Dela . 1.00 A. ral > and 11 M daily; via Market Street’ Wharf, 9.00 A.M. (Sat- urdays only), 10.00, 31.00 A.M. and 12.45 PM. Week days. '11.85 "P.M. daliy. "Sundays ouly, For Cape May, 10.00, 11.00 A.M., 12.45 P.M. week days, 11.35 P.M. daily. Ticket offices, corner I5th and G streets, and at {he station. (Cth 2nd B streets, orde left for the checking of to destina: from hotels and residesosa, eee * i. B. HUTCH . General Manager, BALTIMORE AND OHIO RAILROAD. hedule in effect Inne 5, 1897. Leave Washington from station corner of New ereey avenue and C st. For Chicago and Northwest, Vestibuled Limited 200, 11:45 a.m., $205 pan. atl, St. Touts and Indianapolis, Ex- Dm 5 a.m. Vestibuled Limited, 3:40 ‘p.m., Express, 11:30 p.m. For Pittsiurg and Cleveland, Express daily, 10:00 a.m. and S-0 p.m. For Columbus, Toledo and Detroit, 11:30 p.m. For Winchester and way stations, 8:00, 11:45 a.m., $5:30 p.m. For New Orleans, Memphis, Birmingham, Chat- tanouga, Knoxville, Bristol and Roanoke, 11:20 p.m. daily; Sleeping Cars through. For Luray, 3:40 p.m. daily. itimore, “week days, 5:00, 6: 47:30, x8-00, = > and For Boyd and way points, week , 5:80, 7:05 p.m. Sundays, 9: p.m. Washington Junction and way points, 8:00 4:30, 5:30 p.m., week days; 9:00 a.m., 1:15 p.m., Sundays. For Bay Ridge, Sundays, 9:35 a-m., sR ROYAL BLUE TINE FOR y YORK AND HILADELPHIA. All trains Muminated with Pintsch Mght. For Philadelphia, New York, Reston and. the 7205, 8:00, 10:00 a.m., 12.09 week days, 9:15 a.m., 4:30 p.m. 1:30 and @ East, week days, 32:40 Dining Car), 3:06, 6:05 Dining Car), (12% night ovclock). Sun ; Sleeping Ding Car) night, Slee G: ing Car). + Sleep! 10:00 o'clock. Additional trains for Philadelpti week days, daily, 8:00 p.m. Buffet Parlor Cars on all day trains. For Atlantic City, 72 102 12:40 und 3.00 p.m. week days. For Cape May, 12:00 noon. tExcept Sunday. *Daily. §Sunday only. aE! trains. Baggage called for and checked from botels and residences by Union Transfer Co. on orders left at ticket offices, 619 Pennsylvania avenue n.w., New York avevue and 15th street, and at Depot. WM. M. GREENE, D. B. MARTIN, jer OT Manager. Mgr. Pass. ‘Traffic. SOUTHERN RAILWAY. Schedule im effect July 4, 1897. All treins arrive and leave at Ponnsylvanta pas- T station. 8:12 A.M.--Daily.—Local for Danville, Charlotte and way stations. Connects at Manassas for 5 burg, Harrisonburg and Stauntoa, dat xcept Sunday, and at Lynchburg wits the Norfolk and Western dail, dally for thy 11:15 3 MAIL. ies Pullaunw fet Sleepers, and Washincien to Jacksonville, unith a th Puliman Sleeper for Ashevill Chattanooga snd Nash- and et Charlotte with Pullman Sleeper Paliman Buffet Sleeper New York to rs, connceting xt Atlanta for Birmingham his. Solid train Washington to New Or- ithout change. Sunset Personally Coaducted eursion Thi Sleeper on this train every Wealnesday to San Francisco without change. ‘S01 P.M.—Local for Front Royal, Strasburg and Harrisonburg. dally, except Senday. 4:51, P.M.—Daily.—Lo- for Charlottesville. Da VASHINGTON AND SOUTH. RN VESTIRULED LIMITED, compowsd of Vestitaled Sleepers. Dining Cars and Day Pullman Sleepers Aew York to Nashville, le, Knozville and Chattanonga; via Charlvtte, Columbia, Sa- le, and York to Mem ww York to New Orleans, Vestibaled Day Southern Railway outgomery. AND OHIO DIVIS- datz 200 and a. Sun nd Jai vi phis, via Birminglam; via ' Atlanta and Mcntzomers. Coach Washington to AUanta. reensboro” ae Retuning, arrive at_ Washingt m, dally and 3:00 p.m. m Round Hill, 7:06 Herndon, 8:34 a.m. daily, except Sun- dny, from Leesburg.” “Phrouzh trains from the south arrive at Wash- re, 32:40 and 9: except Sanday, and 8:30 a.m. daily frou’ Charlottesville. Tickets, Sleeping Gar reservation and tnfornia- ton furnished at offices, 811 and 1300 Pennssivania 2.10. dally, except m. datiy, except . M. CULP. c W. A. TURK. Gen. Pass. L. S. BROWN, Gen. Agent is3 . Dept. WASHINGTON, ALEXANDRIA AND MT. VERNON RAILWAY. FROM STATION, 13% STKEET AND PA. AVE. In cffect May 9, 1897. For Alcranérin 8), 6:30, 7:05, (week da. 9:00, 9:50, 12:20, 10:30, 11:00, 11:30 an, bry a eso, Non 1:20, 2:00, 3:20, 3:00, 3:20, 4:00, 5:00, 5:30, p.m. Way Stations vay Bridge (week day: 11:45 a.m., 12% 90, 4:00, avis, 630 checked free for hola at station. Bleycles, 25 conte cack” CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO RalLWay, THROUGH THE GRANDEST SCENER’ MEALS SERVED IN DIN AND % Batt t6 Guleago., Connects at Covington, "War toe Eto reat, DAWN. P.v. Lint sam Eaangten aod Ste oe Set fithout chan, Teedays, fucrsdays cog ta iee ‘Daily connection for the CY oa Parlor Car. ‘Sleepers to Chieago and “A. DAILY —For Bea ay scr mar tae we end = {snes ent pO, Nese eo a. - eptt-3aa Hy