Evening Star Newspaper, September 25, 1897, Page 19

“SHREWSBURY.” SS ee, BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN. Saturday's Star. I should have been less than a man had I not thanked God for my escape. But it is in the sap of a tree to run upward in the spring, and in the blood of a man to live in the present and future, the past} going for little: and I had not crouched | two minutes on the thwart before the steady lurch o¢ the boat outward and sea- ward fixed my attention. From this to asking myself by what chance I had been saved, and who were the men who sat round me—and evinced no more curiosity abcut me then if they had been sent to the spot purely and simply to rescue me— awas but a step. I took it, scanned them steaithily,+ and was far from reassured. The sea garb was then new to me, and these wearers of it were the wilcest of their class. The fog which enfolded us magnified their clumsy shoulders, and great knitted nightcaps and the tarry ringlets that hung in festoons about their scarred an@ tanned faces. The huge gnaried hands that swu to and fro with the oars were no more like human flesh than the sea boots which the men wore, drawn hich on their thighs. They had rings in their ears, and from all came a reek of tobacco and salt fish and strange vaths; nor did it need the addition of the hanger and pistol which each wore in his belt to inform me that I had fallen once again among fierce and desperate men. Dismayed by all 1 saw, it yet surprised | me that no one questioned me. He who sat in the stern of the boat, and seemed to be in command, had a whistle continual- ly at his lips, and his eyes on the curtain of haze before us, but if the tiller and navi- enhead’s anger; so that presently all my fore-looking resolved itself into a strenuous effort to put off the evil day, and to pro- long, by lying still and quiet, the sleep into which he a] to have fallen. He lay so close to me, divided only by the one board on which I reclined, that all the neises of the ship—the creaking of the tim- bers, the wash of the seas as they foamed along the quarter, and the banging of blocks and ropes—noises that never ceased, failed to cover the sound of his breathing. And this nearness to me, taken with the fact that I could not see him, so tormented me with doubt whether he was awake or asleep, was recovering or growing worse, that more than once I raised my nead and istened until my neck ached. In the twi- light of the cabin I could see his cloak swaying lazily on a hook; on another hung a belt with pistols, that slid this way and that with the swing of the vessel. And presently, watching these and listening to the regularity of his breathing, I laid my head down and did the last thing I pro- posed to do or should have thought pos- sible; for I fell asleep. I awoke with a man’s hand on my shoul- der, and sat up with a start of alarm, a man’s voice in my ear. The floor of the cabin slanted no longer, the cloak and sword belt hung motionless on the wall, and in place of the sullen plash of the waves and the ceaseless creaking of joists and knees, that had before filled the in- wards of the ship, a medley of shouts and cries, as shrill as they were unintelligible, filled the pauses of the windlass. -These things were, and I took them in, and drew the inference—that we were in harbor; but mechanically, for it seemed at the moment that such wits as terror left me were in the grasp of the man who shook me and swore at me by turns, and whose short hair—for he was wigless—fairly bristled with rage and perplexity. “You. Who the devil are you?” he cried frantically. “What witchcraft is this? Here, Gill! Gill! Do you hear, you tarry pudding head? Who is this you have put in my cabin? And where is Fenwick? Where—” “Where is Sir John?” cried a voice, some- what distant, as if the speaker stooped to the hatchway. “He is there, Mr. Birken- head. I set him there myself. And be- tween gentlemen, such words as those, Mr. Birkenhead—” “As what?” cried the man who held me. WITH A SHRIEK OF PAIN. of the b were ot to pull bru up his thoughts however, were yeing me sh stares, until the fog | sudden the hull of a, ng high beside us. A shrill | piping came from it—a sound I had heard | before, but taken to be the scream of a seabird, and thi we drew up, was fol- The man by my side let his whistle that he might answer, which he did, in French; a moment later our boat grated against the heaving tim- on in bers, and I, looking up through the raw} morning air, saw a_man in a beat cloak spring on the bulwarks and wave his hat. | “Welcome,” he cried lustily. “And God | save the king! A near thing they tell me, sir. But come on board, come on board, and we shail see Dunquerque the soonet Up with you, Sir Jokn, if you please, and let us be gone with the fog, and no heel taps!” ° ‘Then, without another word, I knew what had happened. I knew why the boat which hed picked me up had been waiting on the beach at that hour, and as I rose to my feet on the seat, and clutched the rope ladder which the sailors threw down to me, my knees knocked together, for I fore- saw what I had to expect. But the deck was surer ground for debate or explana- tion than the cockleshell wherein I sat, end which tossed and ducked under me, threatening every moment to upset my stomach, and I went up giddily, grasped the bulwark, and aided by half a dozen grinning seamen, night-capped and ring- leted, I sprang down on the deck. The man in the boat cloak received me th a clumsy bow and shock my ha ve joy, Sir John,” he said. to see you, sir. I began to fear that you were taken. A little more and I must have left you. But all's well that ends well, and —your pardon, one moment. With that he broke off, and shouted half a dozen orders in French and English to the sailors, and in a moment the capstan, | as I afterward heard it called, was creak- irg round, and there was a hurry of feet, first toe one side and then to the other, and & great shouting and hauling at ropes. The ship heeled over so suddenly that if 1 had not caught at the rail I must have lost my footing. and for an instant the green seas scemed to swell up on a level with’ the anting deck, as if they would swallow s bodily. Instead, the sloop, still heeling over, began to gather way, and presently was hissing through the water, piling the white surf before it, only to pour it foam- ing to either side. The haze, like a moving curtain, began to glide by us, and, looking straight ahead, I saw a yellow glare that told of the sun rising over the French dunes. ‘The man who had received me, and who seemed to be the master, returned to my side. “We are under way, sir,” he said, “and I am glad of it. But you will like to see Mr. Birkenhead? He would have met you, but the sea colic took him as he lay 2n the sw > Dunquerque whistling for a wind. it badly one time, and one time he is as hearty as you are. He is better this morning, but he fs ill enough.” I muttered that I would see him by and by: when he was better. That I would lie down a little, and—* “Oh, I have got a bunk for you in his cabin,” the master answered briskly. “I thought you would want to talk state secrets. Follow me, if you please, and look sir. to a hatch or trap door, = it, began to descend. Not dar- use, I followed him, down a steep ladder into the dark bowels of the ship; the reek of tar and bilge water, cheese and old rum growing stronger with every foot we descended. At the bottom of the ladder he pushed aside a sliding panel, and signed to me to pass through the opening. I obeyed, and found myself in a sort of dog hole— as it seemed to me, who knew nothing of ship’s cabins—lighted only by a span-wide round window; so dark, therefore, that I stood a moment groping, and so close and foul-smelling that my gorge rose. Out of the gloom came a groan as of a sick sheep. “Here is Sir John, safe and sound!” cried the master, in his sea tones. “There is good medicine for you, Mr. Birk- enhead.” And he peered into the darkness. The only answer was a second groan. “Do you hear, sir?” the captain repeated. “Sir John is here.” A voice feebly yet unmistakably d—a Sir John and the captain. The master @huckled hoarsely. “Set a frigate behind us, with a noose flying at the yard arm, and there is no man like him!" he said. “None, Sir John; and I have carried him across seventy times and over, sick and well. He should know the road from the marsh to Southwark, if any man does. But let him be for the present, and do you lie down in the bunk above him, and 1 will bring you some nantz and a crust. When he is better he will be as glad to see you as if you were his brother.” { obeyed, and, fortified by the strong waters he brought me, was glad to le down, and, under cover of darkness, con- sider my position and what chance I had of extricating myself from it. For the time, and probably until we reached Dun- querque, I was safe, but what would hap- pen when Birkenhead—the man. whom the Jacobites called the Royal Post, and who doubtless knew Sir John Fenwick by sight —what would happen, I say, when he roused himself, and found that he had not only taken off the wrong man, but left Sir John to his fate? Would he not be cer- tain to visit the mischance on my head? Or, if I escaped his hands, what must I expect, a stranger, ashore in a foreign land, with little money and no language at my command? I shwidered at the prospect: yet shuddered more at the thought of Birk- tarry—but never between mind; is be hanged!” cried my assailant with violence. “Who is this feol? That is what I asked. And you, have you no tengue?" he centinued, glaring at me. “Who are you, and where Is Sir John Fen- wick?” Before I could answer, the master who had descended crowded himself into the ay. “That is Sir John.” he said sulk- ight that you—' his, Sir John?” the other exclaimed. ‘Aye, to be sure.” _ “As much Sir John as you are the warm- ing paa!” Birkenhead retorted; and. re- kcesed me with so much violence that my bead rapped against the panels. “This, Sir John Fenwick?” And then: “Oh, man, man, you have destroyed me,” he cried. “Where is my reputation now? You have left the real simon pure to be taken, and brought off this—this—you bochy, you grin- ning ape, who are you?” ‘Trembling, I told him my name. “And Sir John?” he said. “Where is he?" I left him at Ashford,” I muttered. “It is a He!” he cried in a voice that thrilled me to the marrow. “You did not leave him at Ashford! He was with you on the beach—he was with you, and you deserted him! You left_him to be taken, and saved yourself. You wretch! You Judas!” Gca_knows by what intuition he spoke. For me, I swea™ that it Was not until that moment, not until he had put the possibil- ity into words, that T knew—aye knew: for that was the only word, so certain was I after the event—that the man who had ridden down the beach and called vainly on the sailors to wait. the man from whom We had rowed away laughing. taking with us his last hope cf life, was not Matthew Smith, but Sir John Fenwick! Now, things whicn should have opened my eyes then and had not, came beck to me. T recalled how tall and gaunt t r bat ine Fis he rider had looked . jaze, and a something novel in his voice and plaintive in hi. v I had heard the cli pe atuseniens he clack of Smith's 3 early as T ever he: ything in my life; but, if Sir ae tmed by the sound of my hasty de. barture, and fearing treachery, had sallied out, and leaping on the first horse he fcund, had ridden after me, then all wag cle: that, and cowered b e nee before the than Solomons horse's shoes a’ men’s so that they had been more had they taken my dden disorder for aught but guilt—guilt Beer for aug’ —guilt fought home. For Birkenhi ee Ww i Den ire or eirkenhead, his rage was terri- me by the throat, and, dis- pitiful pleas that I had not dragged me from the berth and » would choke me there and naked hands. Instead, how- legarding my known, he made as if then with hi: ever, he suddenly loosed me. = 5 cried, “I will rot dirty my h: ee you! That such as you—y. man’s death! You! But maven Fates Ce up with him! © yardarm. String kim up! e bay he is an hour oldery oe “In Dunquerque harbor?” s: “Why nate aid the other. “Why not?” said the master. Mr. Birkenhead, I serve a kin: and not de facto. if you want afother reeson——" “Well?” “I am not aware raised you to the swered sturd‘ly. ee you have turned sea lawyer, have we “Law is law,” said the shipmaster. England or France, or the high seas.” “And owling is owling,” the other re- torted with passion. “And smuggling smuggling! You are a fine man to talk! If you will not hang him—as they will hang Fenwick, so help me, never doubt it! —wWhat will you do with him?” Give my men a bag of sand apiece and let him run the gauntlet,” the captain an- swered, with a phlegm that froze me. “Trust me sir, they will not leave much of a balance owing.” It was terrible to see how Birkenhead, vain, choleric and maddened by disappoint- ment, jumped at the cruel suggestion. For me, I shrank into the bunk, into the far- thest corner, and cried for mercy; I might as well have cried to the winds. I was hauled out, the word passed up, and de- spite my desperate struggles, prayers and threats—the latter not unmingled with the rame of Shrewsbury, which did but harden them—I was dragged to the foot cf the ladder. Thence I was carried on deck, where, half dead with fear, and powerless in the hands of three stout’seamen, I met none but grinning faces and looks of cruel anticipation. Few need to be told with what zest the common herd flock to 1 scene of cruel sport, how hard are their bosoms, how fiendish the pleasure which all but the most humane and thoughtful take In helpless suffering. Small was the chance that my pleas of innocence and ap- peals for a hearing would gain attention. All was ready; the men bared their arms and licked their lips, and in a moment I must have been set for the baiting. But in certain circumstances the extrem- ity’ of fear is arother name for the ex- tremity of daring; and, the master at this last moment going to range thé crew in two lines, and one of the sailors who had me in charge releasing me for an instant that he might arm himself with a sand bag, I saw my opportunity. With a des- berate swing I wrenched myself from the grasp of the other man. That done, a sin- gle bound carried me to the plank which Joined the deck to the shore; I flew across it, swift as the wind; and as the whole crew, seeing what had happened, broke from their stations, and with yells and Nhoope of giee took pp the chase. I on shore. Bursting recklessly throug! id ‘ou shail not es- Up with him to “Because, is de jure that his majesty has bench,” the master an- sprang hh the That is why not. And THE EVENING STAR, idlers-whom the arrival of the sped across the open wharf, labyrinth of bales and casks up the first lane to which I came. Fear gave me wings, and I left the wharf @ score of yards ahead of my pursuers. But the seamen who had taken up the chase with the gusto of boys let loose from school made up for the lack of speed by whooping like demons, and the En- glish among them hallooing, “Stop thief! and the others some French words alike in import, the alarm went abreast of me. Fortunately the lane was almost deserted, and I easily evaded the half-hearted ef- ferts to stop me which one or two made. It seemed that I should for the present get away. But at the last moment at the head of the lane fate waited for me; an old woman standing in a doorway—and who made, as I came up, as if she was afraid of me—flung a bucket after me. It feli in front of me. I trod on the edge, and fell wit) shriek of pain. Before I could rise or speak, the foremost of the sailors came up and struck me on the head with a sandbag, «nd the others, as they arrived, rained blows on me with- out mercy. I managed to utter a cry, then instinctively covered my head with my arms. They belabored me until they were tired and I almost senseless, when, think- ing me dead, they went off whistling, and I crawled into the nearest doorway and fainted away. Chapter XL. When I recovered my senses I was on my back in one of eighteen beds, in a leng, white-walled room, having barred windows and a vaulted ceiling. A woman, garbed strangely in black. and with a queer white cap drawn tight round her face, leaned over me, and with her finger laid to her lips enjoined silence. Here and there along the wall were pictures of saints, and at the end two candles burned before a kind of altar. I had an idea that I had been part- ly conscious, and had lain tossing giddily with a burning head and a dreadful thirst through days and nights of fever. Now, though I could scarcely raise my head, and my brain reeled if I stirred, I was clear- minded and knew that the bone cf my leg was broken, and that for that reason [ had a bed to myself where most lay double; for the rest, I was so weak £ could cnly cry in pure gratitude, when the nun came to me in my turn and fed me, and pi stout and gentle-eyed, laid her fingers on her lips, or smiling, said in her odd Eng- lish, “Quee-at, quee-at, monsicur!”” In the face of the blessings w Protestant succession, settled in our as present house of Hanover, has secured to these islands, it would little become me to find a virtue in papistry, and my late lord, who early saw and abjured the errors of that faith, would have support or encourage such a thesis. Not- withstanding which, I venture to say that the devotion of these women to <heir call- ing is a thing not to be ‘leeried, saercly be- cause we have no counterpart of it; nor the charity of that hospital, simply because the burning of candles and worshiping of saints alternate with the tendance ef the wretched. On the contrary, it seems to me that were such a profession, the idolatrous vows excepted, grafted on our church, it might redound alike to the credit of re- ligion which of late the writings of Lord Belingbroke have somewhat belittled—and to the good of mankind. So much with submission; nor will the mcst rigid of our divines }lame me, when they learn that I lay ten. weeks in the Mai- son de Dieu at Dunquerqie, dependent for everything on the kind offic:s of those good women, and nursed during ‘hat long period with a solicitude and patience not to be exceeded by that of wife or mother. When I had so far recovered to be able to leave my bed and move a few crutches I was assisted to a shady court- yard, nestled snugly between the hospital and the old town wall. Here, under a grarled mulberry tree which had sheltered the troops of Parma, I spent my time in a dream of peace, through whic nuns, ap- ple-faced and kind-eyed, flitted, laden with tisanes or bearing bottles that c:led for the immediate attention of M. le “Medecin’s long nose and _ silver-rimmed speciacles. Occasionally their director would seat him- self beside me and silently run thfough his office, or instruct me in the French tongue, been the last to and the evils of Jansenism, msinly by means of the snuff box, which rarely left his fine white hands. More often the niea- ger apothecary, young, yell dry, am- bitious, with a hungry light in his’ eyes, wculd take an English lesson, untit the ccming of his superior routed him and sent him to his gallipots and compounding with a flea in his ear, Such were the scenes and companions that attended my return to health; nor, my spirits being attuned to these, should I have come to seek or desire others, though euhanced by my native air—a species of inertia more easily excused by those who have viewed French life near at hand than by such as have never traveled—but for an encounter as important in its consequences as it was unexpected, which broke the even current of my days. it was no uncommon thing for the nuns to bring one of my countrymen to me, in the fond hope that I might find a friend. But as these persons, from the nature of the case, were invariably Jacobites and -et- ther, knowing something of my story, thought me well served, or coming to ex- amine me shied at the names of Mr. Brome and Lord Shrewsbury, such efforts had but one end. When I heard, therefore, for the fourth or fifth time that a compatriot ef mine, amiable and of a vivacity tout-a-fait marveilleuse was coming to see me, I was as far from supposing that I should find an acquaintance as I was, from anticipating the interview with pleasure. Imagine my surprise therefore when Soeur Marie cali- ed me into the garden at the appointed time, and, her simple face shining with de- light, led me to the old mulberry tree, where, who should be sitting but Mary Ferguson. She had as little expected to meet me as I to meet her; but coming on me thus sud- denly, and seeing me lame, and in a sense a cripple, reduced, moreover, by the long illness through which I had passed, she let her feelings have way. Such tenderness es she had entertained for me before welled up now with irresistible force, and giving the lie to a certain hoydenish hardness tr- herent in a disposition which was never one of the most common, in a moment she “Do It Dick.” <was in my'arms. If she did not weep her- self she rdoned, and possibly viewed with pleasure, those tears on my part which weakness and surprise drew from me; while a hundred broken words and~ ex- clamations bore witness to the gratitude she felt on the score of her escape. Thus brought together in a strange coun- try, and agitated by a hundred memories, nothing was at first made clear, except that we belonged to one another; and Soeur Marie had long fied to carry the tale, with mingled glee and horror into . the house, before we grew sufficiently calm to answer the numberless questions which it occurred to each to ask. At length Maxy, pressed to tell me how she had fared since her escape, made one of the odd faces I could so well remember. And “Not as I would, but as I could,” she “by crossing with letters.” _ I exclaimed. ae = sure,”” she answered, “I go to and from. London with letters.’ “But should -you be taken?” I cried, with a vivid remembrance of the terror into which the prospect of punishment had thrown her. : She shrugged her shoulders, yet sup- . or I was mistaken, a shudder. Then “What will you?" she said, spreading out ‘her little hards French fashion, and that odd grimace. “It is the old story, I must live, Dick. And what ton SATURDAY, household? I arii‘Fetuson's niece, a back- stairs wi of “whdin She raised her’eyetrows, with a look in her eyes that, PF reiiember, puzzled me. “Well, may be,” shé’ said, a trifle tartly. “And the other'ts néither here nor there. For the rest, Diek, ¥ live at Capt. Gill's, and his wife claws me Monday and kisses me Tuesday.” “And you have-taken letters to London?” I said, wondering at her courage. “Three times;” shé answered, nodding ‘soberly. “And t6 Tunbridge once- A wo- man_ passes. Aiman* would be taker. So Mr. Birkenhead says." But—” and with the word she broke off abruptly, and stared at me, and continued to stare at me, her fsce, which was rourder‘and more womanly than in old days, falling strangely. It wore such a look, indeed, that I glanced over my shoulder, thinking that she saw _ something. Finding nothing, “Mary!". I cried, “what is it? What is the matter?” “Are you the man—who came with Sir John Fenwick tothe shore?” she cried, stepping back a pace—she had already risen. “And betrayed him? Dick, Dick, dca’t say it!’ she continued, hurriedly, holding out -her hands as if she would ward off my words. “Don't say that you are I had forgotten until this mo- ment—whom I came to see; who, they said, was here.” Her words stumg me, even as her face frightened me. But while I winced, a kind of courage ,born of indignaiion and of a sense of injustice long endured, came to me, and I answered her with spirit. “‘No,’ I said, “I am not that man.” “No?” she cried. “Ng,” I said defiantly. “If you mean the man ‘that betrayed Sir John Fenwick. But I will tell you what man | am—if you will listen to me.” “What are you going to tell me?” she answered, the troubled look returning. And then “Dick, don’t lie to me!” she cried quickly. “I have no need,” I said. And with that, beginning at the beginning, I told her all the story which is written here, so far as it was not already krown to her. She listened in silence, standing over me with something of the severity of a judge, until I came to the start-from London with Matthew Smith. There she interrupted me. ‘One mo- ment,” she said in a hard voice, an fixed me with keen unfriendly eyes. know that Sir John Fenwick was two days later, and is in the tower?” “I know nothing,” I said, holding out my hands and trembling with the excite- ment of my story, and the thought of my sufferings. fot even that?” No, nothing; not even that,” I said. “Nor that within a’ month, in all proba- bility, he will be tried and executed!” “No.” “Nor that your master is in peril? You have not heard that’Sir John has turned on him and denounced him to the council and the king?” “No.” I said. “How should 1?” “What?” she eried incredulously. “You do not know that with which all England is ringing—though it touches you of all men?” “How should 1?” I said feebly. “Who would tell me here? And for weeks I have been ill.” = She nodded. “Go on,” she said. I obeyed. { took up the thread again; told her how we reached Ashford, how I saw Sir John, how I fled and how I was pursued; finally how I was received on board the boat, and never until the follow- ing day, when Birkenhead flung it in my teeth, guessed that I forestalled Sir John and robbed him of his one chance of es- cape. “For if I had known,” I continued warmly, “why should I fly from him? What had I to fear from him? Or what to gain, if Smith with. a pistol were not at my heels, by leaving England? Gain?” I continued bitterly, seeing that I had’ con- vinced her. “What did I gain? This! This!” And I touched my crippled leg. “Thank God!” she said with emotion. “Thank God, Dick. But——” “But what I retgrted sharply; for in the telling of the story | had come to see more clearly than before how cruelly I had been treated. “fut what?” 3 “Well, just this,” she said gently. “Have you not brought it on yourself—in a meas- ure? If you had been more; that is, I mean, if you had not’ been so—” “So what?” FI cried querulously, seeing her hesitate. < “Well, so quick. to. think that it) was Matthew Smith-and a pistol,” she an- smiling rather hearilessly. “That “There was a’ mist,” I said. She laughed in her odd way. “Of course, Dick, there was a mist,” she agreed. “And you cannot make bricks without straw. And after all you did make bricks in St. James’ square, and it is not for me to find fault. But there is a thing to be done and it must be done.” And her lips closed firmly, after a fashion I remembered and still remember, having seen it a hundred limes since that day—and learned to hu- mor it. ‘‘One that must be done!” she con- tinued. “Dick, you will not leave the duke to be ruined by Matthew Smith? You will not lie here and let those rogues work their Te ,on him? Sir John has denounced “And may denounce me! I said, aghast at the notion. “May denounce ine,” meen tinued with agitation. “Will denounce me. If it was not the duke who was at Ash- ford, it was I!” “And who are you?" she retorted, with a look that withered me. “Who will care whether you met Sir John at Ashford or not? King William—call him Dutchman, boor, drankard, as it’s the fashion this ee ane =. say, what you will-at ast, he flies at Ligh ga s hawk gtenilossc Gee ere ane ee ee “Mice? “Aye, mice!” she answered, with a snap of her teeth—and she looked all over the little vixen she could be. “For what are we? What are we now? Still more, what are we if we leave the duke to his enemies, leave him to be ruined and disgraced, leave him to pay the penalty, while you, the cause of ull this, lie here—lie safe ond snug? For shame, Dick! For shame!” she continued, with such a thrill in her voice that the pigeons feeding behind her flut- tered up,iu alarm, .and two or three nuns looked out inquisitively. I had my own thoughts and my own feel- ings about my lord, as he well knew in after years; I chailenge any one to say that f lacked either respect or affection for him. But a man’s wits move more slowly than a woman's, and the news came on me suddenly, It was no great wonder if I could not ina moment stomach the pros- pect of returning to risk and Jeopardy, to the turmoil from which I had been so long freed, and the hazards of a life and death struggle. In tke political life of twenty years ago men carried their necks to mar- ket. Knowing that I might save the duke and suffer in his place—the fate of many a poor dependent—or might be confronted with Smith, or brought face to face with Ferguson, or perish before I reached Lon- don in the net in which my lord’s own feet were caught, I foresaw not one but a hun- dred dangers; and those such as no pru- dent man could be expected to regard with equanimity, or any but a hare-brained girl would encounter with a light heart. Still, I desired to stand well with her, and that being so, T confess that it was ‘with relief I remembered? my lameness, and named it to h Passing over the harsh- ness of her Jas§'worts, “You are right,” I sald. “Something should be done, but “for me it is impossible at present; I am lame, as you see.” 0 “Lame?” she‘ttied.‘ “More than lame,’"¥ answered—but there was that in her toné“which bade me avoid her eyes. “A eMpple?'Mary.” “No, not a erippie,” she answered. “Yes,” I said! - 3! “No, Dick,” she avswered in a voice low, but so grave afid firm that I winced. “Let us be frank forencé:’ Not a cripple, but a coward.” ot Hn “I never ‘said"F-was a soldier,” I an- wren 1" sheoreplted wilt “Nor I,”" she?tepliéd, ‘ully misunder= standing me. “I said’h coward! And a cow- ard I will not marryv* - With that weilooked at one another, and saw that her'faee was white. “Was it a coward that saved your life—in the square?” I muttered at last. ‘No,” she answered. “But it was a cow- ard played the sneak for Ferguson. -And a coward played the rogue for Smith! It was a coward lost. Fenwick—because he dared not look behind! And a coward who will now sacrifice his benefactor to save _Lis own skin. And you only know in how many other things~you have played the craven. But the rather for that, up, man, and play the. man! You have a chance now! Do this one brave thing, and all will Oh, Dick, Diek,” sh ued—and, witha sudden blaze in her face, she stooped and threw her arms round me. “If you love me, do it! Do it for us both! Do tt, or, if you cannot, God it were ie we were SEPTEMBER 25, 1897— give me time—to give me time, a few days in which to consis what I would do. “Not a day,” she answered, springing from me in fresh excitement and-as if my touch burned her. “I will give you no time. You have had a lifetime, and to what purpose? I will give you no time. Do you give me your word?” “To go to England?” I was a-shake from hegd to foot, and groaned aloud. In truth if I had known the gallows to be the certain and inevitable end of the road on which I was asked to enter, I could not have been more sorely beset between rage and fear and shame of her and desire for her. But while I hung in that misery, she continuing te stand over me, I looked, as it happened, in her face, and I saw that it was no longer hot with ancer, but sad and drawn as by a sharp pain. And I gave her my word, trembling and shaking. “Now,” said she, “are you a brave man, and perhaps the bravest?” Chapter XLI. That the arrest of Sir John Fenwick, re- Ported in London on the 13th of June, was regarded by all parties as an event of the first magnitude, scarce exceeded in im- Portance by a Victory in Flanders or a de- feat in the Mediterranean, is a thing not to be denied at this time of day, when men still in their prime can recall the commo- tion occasioned by it. The private ani- mosity, which was believed to exist be- tween Sir John and the king, and which dated, if the gossip of Will's and Garra- way’s went for anything, not from the slight which he had put upon the late queen, but from a much earlier period, when he had served under William in Flanders, aroused men’s curiosity, and in a sense their pity; as if they were to see here the end of a Greek drama. Nor, apart from the public and general interest, which Sir John’s birth and family connections, no less than his share in the plot, considerably augmented, was there any faction which could view his arrest with indifference. He had been so deep in the confidence of St. Germains that were he to make a discovery, not tories and jacobites only lay at his mercy, but all that large class among the whigs who had stooped to palter with James. These, as they were the more culpable, had also more to fear. Trembling at the prospect of a dis- closure which must convict them of prac- tices at variance w th their most : 0 emn pro- fessions, they were supported by none of those sentiments of loyaity, honorable if mistaken, which excused the others; while as each fondly thought his perfidy un- known to his neighbor, and dreading noth- ing so much as detection by the rank and file of the party, he found the burden of apprehension weigh the more heavily, be- cause he had none to share it with him, The absence of the king, who was cam- paigning in Flanders, aggravated the ‘sus- pense which prevailed so widely, for the reasons above, and others, that it is not too much to say that barely four politicians could be found of the first and second rank who were not nearly concerned in the ques- tion of Sir John Fenwick’s silence. Of these, however, I make bold to say that my lord was one; and though the news that Sir John, who lay in the tower, sent for the Duke of Devonshire may have ex- cited a passing feeling of jealousy in ¥ mind—since he and not the other duke was the person to whom Sir John might more fitly unbosom himself—I am confident, and indeed had it from his own lips, that at this time he had no notion of any danger ing himself. were first opened by the Earl of Marlborough, who, calling upon him one day, ostensibly on business connected with the Princess Anne (to whom the king had been reconciled before his departure), pres- ently named Sir John. From this to the statement made to the Duke of Devon- shire, and the rumors of its contents which filled the coffee houses, was but a step. The earl seemed concerned; my lord, in his innocence, skeptical. At length the latter spoke out what was in his mind. “To tell you the truth, my lord,” he said frankly, “I think it is a mare’s nest. I don’t believe that any state- ment has been made.” The earl iooked astonished. why not? he said. “Because, unless I am much mistaken,” my lord answered, smilirg, “the duke would have brought it straight to me. And L bave heard nothing of it.” “You have not asked the duke?” “Of course not.” “But—he was with Sir John,” the earl persisted steadily. “There is no doubt of that, is there?” “Oh, no.” “Well, then, ts not that in itself strange?” “I think not; there have always been friendly relations,” my lord continued, “be- tween the duke and Sir John.” “Just so,” Lord Mariborough answered, taking a pinch of snuff. “Still—do those relations warrant the lord steward in vis- iting him not The secretary locked a little startled. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “But the Duke of Devorshire’s patriotism is so well established—” 5 “That he may steal the horse while we look over the wall,” Lord Marlborough answered, taking him up with a smile. “Be that as it may,” he continued, “and I am sure that the same may be said of the Duke of Shrewsbury’’—here the two noble- men bowgd to one another—“I think your grace’s information is somewhat faulty on tais point. I happen to know that im- mediately after the interview a_ special mesgenger left Devonshire house for Loo, and*that the matters he carried were re- duced into writing by his grace’s own hand. That being so, duke, you are better qualified to draw the inference than [ am.” My lord at that looked grave, and nod- ded, being convinced; and IT do not doubt that he felt the slight which the other duke’s silence implied. But though all the men I have ever met, he was the most “May I ask sensitive, he was the last, also, lo wear his heart on his sleeve! and not only did he refrain from complaint of his col- league's conduct, but he hastened to disp by ‘a word or two, the effect of his m mentary gravity. “Ah. then I can gue what happened,” he said, nodding his con prehension. “I have no doubt that ‘John made it a term that his discov should be delivered to the king at first hand--and to no one else.” Lord Marlborough rose. “Duke,” said, firmly, “I think~it is fair that I should be more frank with you. The rea- son you give is not the reason they are giving in the coffee house for the lord steward’s reticence.” “No?” said my lord, with a faint note of scorn in his voice. “No,” said the earl. “On the contra they say at Will’s—and, for that matu at the St. James, too—that the statement is kept’ close because it touched men in power.” “In power?” said my lord, with the same note in his vo'ce. “In the ‘council, do you he “Yes; three men.” “Do they name them?” “Certainly,” said my Lom Marlborough, smiling. “And they join with the three one who is not in power.” “An!” “Myself.” Nothing could exceed the plac‘d indif- ference, as tural as it was tree from exaggeration, which the earl contrived to threw into his last word. Yet my lord started and shifted uneasily in his chair. Knowing something and perhaps suspe>t- ing more, aware of the character which his enemies attributed to ee Maribo: ough, he woull vot have been the states- man he was if he had not fancied an ul- terlor gesign in an admission not a Hive embarrassing. ‘fe confined himself, there- fcre, to a polite shrug expressive of in- credulity and to the words ‘Crelat Ju- daeus.”” “Just 89.” said Lord Marlborough, whose erudition was not cn a par with the mar- velous strategical powers he has since dis- played. “What, then, will your grace say— to Ned Russell?” “The first lord of the admiralty? Is he named?” bd a tthe coffee houses.”” hy “Lord Godolphin!” Impossible?” » “Not so impossible as the fourth,” Lord Marlborough answered, with a light laugh, in which courtesy, amusement and a fine Perception of the ridiculous were nicely mingled. “Can you not guess, duke?” But my lord, too names in that connection, shook his head. | “Who could?’ he said, raising his eye- brows, scornfully. “They might as well name me as some you are thentioning.” o (To be conténued.) —_ Presence of Mind. From Life. PAGES. THE POPULARITY OF THE $3 RATE. Doctor McCoy, Although Recognizing This Popu- larity, Insists That the Reason for Giving It Be Not Overlooked--He States Authoritatively That It Will Under No Circumstances Be Again Extended. In nothing so much as by the very great number of those who have applied for treatment during the past two weeks has the popularity of the $3 rate been shown. It was with genuine surprise and de- Ught that the unexpected announcement was re- ceived and welcomed by hundreds. It is natural enough .that the rate should be popuiar. If is natural that anything offered at one- fourth part of its actual value should be popular. Popularity, however, was pot what was sought when the $3 rate was extended’ until November 1. Doctor McCoy simply agreed to this extension in order that by it he might disprove and emphasize the disproof of those false reports which were cir- culated, to the effect that all who began trext- ment under the $3 rate would be compelled to pay large fees after the first month had very essential thing about the offer Was that ¢ who took advantage of it were.entitled to the UNTIL CURED, Having agreed to the extensic will live up to the letter of bis while doing this be insists that theve is in continuing longer to xive the pzopie ski lower than it Is w an those living in o perfence at a price so mu and so much lowe: are willing te pay. Doctor MeCoy desires to say that under no cir- Jed to extend cumstances Will he again be per the offer, ro matter lion, Regard his offes possible misunderstanding. It is simply this: All patients applying for treatment or renewing treatment before Rovem ber 1st will be treated UNTIL Thix inclades all treatment. It applies to al ndsto all patients. diseases CURED OF ASTHMA. Mrs. Jenny Smith, GOG Gh st. s.w.: “I don’t think any one ever had Asthma worse than I had it. “I coughed incessantly, and as so short of breath that I could not Yie down at night; I have spent night after night sitting up in order to get my breath. i at a year in July since I had my last at-) tack, and I feel that Lam completely cared.” CURED OF GASTRIC CATARRH, James G. Clark, SO st. had catarrh of the stomach for three y troubled almost constantly with naw not take svlid food at all. J was bi tly and belched up quantitics o “rT I was, now { * | HAD CATARRH THIRTY YEARS. r, 336 12th st. we.: 4 troubled William H. “I bad eatarch me, too, very nk water it hurt me. Doctor McCoy's treatment has cured me. have gained eight pounds in weight.” CAN HEAR A WHISPER. Rertha May Scott, 7123 1 Mii for aged thirteen years, Her mother said Bertha was eighteen months old she began to lose her hearing. She grew ssradua both ears being affected. Now she can hear a whisper. DEAFNESS CONTRACTED IN THE HOSPITAL. ear was almost totally deaf. due to Catarch, resulting fr while in a bospitel, and often when it was d wake up during hen I entered that Well as any one; The tear was Almost ly Destroyed, and my left one was not : not hear ordinary better it, and Bertha May Scott, 713 1 st. S.w., Cured of deafness. = Chirp! wake a Doctor McCoy’s Second Monograph on Deafness Has Been Received From the Printers and May Be Obtained on Application at the Office or by Writing for It. | McCoySystemof Medicine PERMANENT OFFICES DR. McCO¥’S NATIONAL PRACTICE, 715 13th Street Northwest. Office Hours—9 to 12 a.m., 1 to 5 pan, 6 to 8 B.m. daily; Sunday, 10 a.m. to $ p.m. TY NOTES UNIVERSI Georgetown University. The regular routine work has been well started this week, and the classes are be- ginning to move smoothly. Very few of the old students have failed to return, and the ciasses are all large. y A concert is to be given by the University Glee Association, of which J. L. Nagle is manager, during thé latter part of Novem- ber, and some hard work is already being done on the program which is to be pro- duced at that time. The entertainment will be for the benefit of the Athletic As- sociation, and all the musical organizations of the college will participate. The foot bali enthusiasts are preparing for a series of inter-class games similar to those held last season. The team of "98, which has heretofore been the champion in these contests, will scarcely be able to hold the position again this season, having lost several of its mest valuable men, while other teams have been greatly strength- ed by Vice secretary, H. S. W. Hailihan; amanuensis, Francis W. Romaine; censgrs, J. L. Nagle and R. G. Cauthorne. The staff of the College Journal has been reorganized and is now as follows: Editor- in-chief, Samuel J. Waggaman; associate editors, E. J. Brady, Joseph J. Cahill, L. J Cuilen, L. F. Jorrin, Gerald Garrigan, W. Kurtz Wimsatt, T. F. Cullen. The business end of the Journal will be managed by E. M. Shea, with J. Savage Rates and David Wheeler as assistants. The Alumni Society will be represented by E. D. F. Brady, ang | the professional schools will have regular correspondents. Heretofore the preparatory department has been allowed a limited space in the Journal; in the future, however, it will have an organ of its own, called the Aca- demic. This will be edited by members of the first academic, and the staff for this year is: E. Keville Glennan, editor-in- chief; George Quinlan, Preston A. Edm n- ston, Jack S. Barrymore, C. 8. L. Howard, Harry Weitzell, Boland Weitzell, assist- ants. The manager is Harry C, Chappell, and Maurice J. Clark will assist him. The law department will open the even- ing of October 6, at which time introduc- tory lectures will be delivered and the stu- cents assigned to classes. Mr. Jere Wil- son, dean of the faculty, will be si as lecturer on real property . Baker, assistant United States district a’ torney. Mr. Wilson remains in the faculty. and it is expected that he will lecture to the | students on general subjects from ume to time during the school year. The medical department preliminary ex- aminations are to be held today and early next week, and the first lectures in the regular course will be given Monday of the week following. National University. The new catalogue of the law department, just issued, announces several changes in the faculty caused by the death of Prof. H. O. Claughton, who was connected with the school for eighteen years. Among the new members of the faculty Harry EK. Davis, United States district attorney, is announced as professor of the law of evi- dence, corporations and constitutional law; he will also deliver a course of lectures on the of law. Prof. Ralston has been Friday, October 1. The faculty this year is the same as last season, although nu- merous changes have been made in t course of i:.struction. The regular courses in the university proper opened Thursday, with a large at- tendance in all departments. Several s cial features have been added to th this year and much benefit is expe them. The Glee, cour Barjo, Mandolin and Club, which gave so many enjoyall certs last season, Is to be reorganize ing the coming week, and it is tize inte to prepare a program to b dered in November. The Theological Literary and Debating Society, the iivingstone Society and the other students’ literary societies which were So successfully conducted last be reformed and those who are look fcrwerd to a successful year The law department sexsi: Friday evening, the Ist of C Columbian Univers The sessions of all departments wili open Wednesday, the 29th instant. Examina- tions for entrance to the university will held Morday and Tuesday of next week at the university. : Charles W. Holmes, who has been cor nected with the school for some time, he been appointed registrar and several changes have been made in the faculty of the law department. The attendance this year bids fair to exceed any in the his- tory of the university. This is true of all schools in the city, and would seem to indicate elther a return of prosperity or a greater thirst after knowledge. Several of last year's foot ball team have left the school, but enongh are left to form the rucleus ct a stron an organizetion is already spoken of | those of the students sho have around the building the past few days. ‘A new course has beer provided for sin- denis who desire the degree of bachelor of science. This is the course of library science and library economy, and nothing of the kind has ever before been offered in a Washington university. The course like other special cours: will incl» French, Latin, German and a considera le amount of scientific work. The Columbian Academy has been abol- ished, it being believed that the field cov- ered by_it was thoroughly well taken care of by the high schools of the city. The building which was formerly devoted to the uses of the academy is now being re- modeled and will be converted into a bos- pital, to be fitted with all modern conven- vences and apparatus, and to be under the immediate direction of Dr. E. A. De- Schweinitz, dean of the medical faculty. The hospital will be opened as soon as possibile after the completion of the nec- essary repairs, but no definite time can now be stated. There has also been established a course in biblical literature, which will be under the direction of Prof. Edward B. Poltard. His work will be supplemented by lectures from eminent specialists in biblical archae- ology, history and literature. The resulted in the promotion of Elmer 8. Far- well to that position. Prof. Hodgkin of the physical school has secured a large number of new instruments for use in that department, and Dean Munroe of the Corcoran Scientific School cS tal pure udents of electricity. —>_— A new invention is one to make telegraph 3 terior