Evening Star Newspaper, October 9, 1897, Page 20

20 THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1897-26 PAGES. ee “SHREWSBURY.” BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN. Copyright, 1897, by Stanley J. Weyman. Written for The Evening Star. Chapter XLiIV — Continued From Last Saturday's Star. About 1 on the morning of November 3 of that year eight gentlemen of the first rank in England were assembled in the gallery at Kensingtoa, awaiting a sum- mons to the king’s closet. With the excep- tion of Lord Godolphin, who had resigned is office three days earlier, ail belonged to the party in power; notwithstanding which, a curious observer might have de- tected in their manner and intercourse an air of reserve and constraint unusual among men at once so highly placed and of the same opinions. A little thought, however, ad a knowledge of the business which brought them together, would have explained the cause of this. While the Duke ef Devonshire, the Mar-* quis of Dorset and Lord Portland formed a group apart, it was to be noticed that placed than any man ever was. For 1 am tried by those whom I accuse. The king slightly shrugged his shoulders. “Fallait penser la wien you accused them, he muttered. Str John cast a fierce, despairing glance along the table, and seemed to control Himself with difficulty. At length, “I can substantiate nothing against three of those Fersors,” he said, whereon some vf those who listened breathed more freely. “And that fs all, sir, that you have to say?” said the king ungraciously, and as if he desired only to cut short the scene. “AIL” said Sir John firmly. “Against those three persons. But as to the fourth, the Duke of Shrewsbury, who is not here—” The king could not suppress an excla- mation of contempt. “You may spare us that fable, sir,” he said. “It would not deceive a child, much less one who holds the duke so high in his esteem.” Sir John drew himself to is full height and looked along the table, his gloomy eyes threatening. “And yet that fable I can prove, sir. To that I have a witness and a witness above suspicion! If I can prove that. sir, shall I have your majesty’s fa- vor?" ‘Perfectly, id the king, shrugging shoulders, amid a general thrill and move- ment; for though rumors had gone abroad, by no means the whole of Sir Joan's case was known, even to some at the table. “Prove it! Prove that, sir, and not a hair of your head shail fall. You have my «you HE CRIED VEHEMENTLY. Lords M miral Ru riborough and G ell, lolphin and Ad- who seemed to fall naturai- ly into a group, and though the movenients of the company constantly left them together, <i this arrange- Ment to | rary or Mr. 5 mediun: of and boi. mentar: “By the eternal, | am the fellow,” the admiral cried, whole company, on one of these occasi “If Sir John had lied about’ me only, should have given it him back in his teeth, but either effected a tempo- the lord keeper rumball, or, through th. r Edward Russell's loud voic erous manners, wrought a mo- i sion of the company. most unlucky the dressing and so fair and square; It is a poor cook who does not know his own batch. But » he dregs in the duke and the duke tods and shirks him, said Lord Dorset, speak- ing sravety and in a tone of rebuke, “no One supposes that the Duke of Shrewsbury is aught 5ut iil. And, allow me to say that under the circumstances you are unwise to put it on him.” | “But d—n me, he has no right to be fll! cried the seaman, whose turbulent spirit Was not easily put down. “if ne were here | I would sey the same to his face. And that is flat!” He was proceeding with more, but at that moment the door of the royal closet was thrown open and a gentlema er appeared, inv them to enter. y lords and g he said, “nis sty desires you to be ted, as at the il. He will be presentiy here. The movement into the next room being made, ation took a lower tone, y to his neight the “3 erossing, new y: t, another, t lent health and spirits in which his majes- ty had ri d; until a*door at the lower end of the room being opened, a murmur ef voices ohn Fenwick oner, and a somewhat ced to the foot of the fa- dazed 2 ble. The lord ste to him; and th: followed hy turned by in which he was pt the admiral, was -e- prisoner. said the Duke o! Will be pre: ed ist stern and h pride Devonshire, ys now haggard, his nd fanaticism at one nd at another gave mted AVE Mn: time an much more, these who cazed on him knew stood on the brink of death within a few mon prince whom for yeu fied, and in whose any How hands ‘s interested in the matter harbored such thoughts, the rave compassion which Lords Devons! nd Dorset cast on him seem- €d to prove; but their reflections—which Gcubtless c-rried them back to 2 time when the most brilliant and cynical of courtiers played the foremost part in the Whitehall of the restoration—these, no less than ihe mutterings and restless movements of Rus: who in his enemy's Presence could scarcely control himself, Were cut short by the king's entrance. He came in unannounced and very quiet- ly at a dcor behind the lord steward, and ali rising to their feet. he forelg cent“ ately, than othe lecks of adding iznmedi- pe lords; my lord stew- . m: proceed. and words, abrupt if not *ked alike the grace which all ered in Charles, and the gloomy which the second James had at - And men felt the lack. Yet, as he took his stand, one hand lightly rest. ard, we will His entran owkwar: rememb ing on the back of the lord steward’s chair. the stoop’ omber figure and sallo withere staring out of its great peruque bad a dignity of their own. For it could not be forgotten ths which no Stuart king of En: soldier and a at home in all t he was that nd had ever der from 3 of FI and the Rhine, with every peril of battle and bri his case if anywhere where other me janched an drew back. And the knoy that thi Was so invested him with a ane ecrar in the ¢ ay wore a bla only by the ribbon of ti and as he ne o low on his breast that his ¢ could on ov- casion shine with a keen and almost bale- ful light. were hidden. The lor] steward, in obedience to his command, wes about to acdress Sir John, ! when the king, with a brusq teristic of him, irterve said, in dry voice, and speaking partly in ch, partly in English, “your papers gether unsatisfactory. In- stead of giving us an account of the plots formed by you and your accomplices, plots of which all the details must be exactly known to you, you tel us stories without avthority, without date, without place, about noblemen and gentiemen with whom you do net y €tend to have had any inter- course. In short, your confession appears to be a contrivance intended to screen those who are really engaged in designs against us, and to make me suspect and discard those in whom I have good reason to place confidence. If you look for any favor from me, therefore, you will give me this moment, and on this spot, a full and straight{orward account of what you know of your own knowledge. And—but do you tell him the rest, my lord. “Sir John,” said the lord steward, in a tone serious and compassionate, “his majesty invites your confidence, and will for good reasons show you his favor. But you must deserve it. And it is his partic- ular desire that you conclude nothing from the fuct that you are admitted to see him. “On the contrary,” said the king, dryly, “I see you, sir, for the sake of my friends If, therefore, you can bstentiate the you have made, it behooves. you to do it. Otherwise, to make a full and free confession of what you do know.” “Sir,” zaid Sir John, hoarsely, speaking for the first time, “I stand here worse However, before Sir John could answer, Trumball rose in his place “I crave your indulgence, hile, with your majes: li in the Duke of Shrews- vy, who is in waiting.” n waiting?” said the king, in urprise; nor was the surpr fined to him. “I thought that he Mr. intervened. a voice se con- was ill, Tr, as to be very unfit to be abroad, > secretary answered. “Yet he came to be in readiness, if your majesty him. Sir John Fenwick persisting, k your majesty’s indulgence while © fetch him.” The king nodded, but with a pinched and dissatisfied face; and Sir William re- tiring, in a mome: At nt returned with the duke. his entrance his majesty greeted him vly, and with a hint of displeasure in manner; thinking, probably, that this vored too much of a coup de theaire, a thing he hated. But seeing the next in- stant, and before the secretary iook his seat, how ill the duke looked, his face be- trayed signs of disturbance; after which, his eyelids drooping, it fell into the dull and sphinx-like mold which it assumed when he did not wish his thoughts to be read by those about him. ‘That the duke’s pallor and wretched ap- pearance gave rise to suspicion in other minds is equally certain; the more hardy Gf those present, svch as my Lord Marl- borough and the admiral, being aware that nothing short of guilt, and the immediate prospect of detection, could so change the And while some felt a kind of admiration, as they conned and measured the stupendous edifice of skillful deceit which my lord had so long and perfectly concealed behind a front of brass as to - in all the world, others were already ed with the effect it would have on the party, and how this might be softened, and that expiained, and in a word another substiluted with as little shock as ible for this man. Nor were these emo- ting the king aking or greeting the general gaze. took his seat, without s said the kins ve all was quiet again, is . Proceed.” I will,” Sir John answered, with greater hardiness than he had yet used. “i have simply to repeat to his face what I have said behind his bac that on the 10th of in_the evening, he met in Kent, and gave me a ring and ing me carry both with me impatient the duke y lord looked slowly round the table: And it startled some to compassion in his face. he said, after, as it seemed, ing the words he was about to speak, ou are in such a position it were bar- barous tc insult you. But you must needs #s you have accused me, before his ma- jesty and these gentiemen, hear me state, also, before them, that there is not a word of truth in what you sa; Sir John stared at him and breathed hard. “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, at length, and his voice sounded sincere. “I was not at Ashford on the 10th of June,” the duke continued, with dignity, “or on any day in that month. I never saw you there, and I gave you no ring.” “Mon Dieu! Sir John muttered again, and, his jaw fallen, he seemed to be un- able sto take his eyes off the other. Now it is certain that whatever the ma- jority of those present thought of this—and the demeanor of the two men was so stead- fast that even Lord Marlborough’s acumen was at fault—the King’s main anxiety was to be rid of the matter; and, with some impatience, he tried to put a stop to it at this point. “Is it worth while to carry this farther, my lofds?” he said, fretfully. “We know our friends. We know our enemies also. This is a story pour rire, and deserv- ing only of contempt.” But Sir John at that cried out, protest- ing bitterly and fiercely and recalling the i promise, and the duke, being no less ent—though, as some thought a little asonably for his own interests—that matter be sifted to the bottom, the had no option but to let it go on. ery wells’ he said, ungracfously, “if he will have his witness, let him.” And then, with one of those spirits of peevishness which stood in strange contrast with his wonted magnanimity, he added to the Duke of Shrewsbury, “It is your own choice, my then at Sir John. lord. Don't blame me.” The querulous words bore a meaning which all recognized; and some at the table star! and resumed the calculation how they should trim their sails in a certain event. But nothing ever became the duke better than the manner in which he re- ived that insinuation. “Be it so, sir,” he id with spirit. “My choice and desire is that Sir John have as full a share of jus- tice as I claim for myself, and as fair a hearirg. Less than that were inconsistent with your majesty’s prerogative and my honor. The king’s only answer was a sulky and careless nod. On which Sir William Trum- ball, after whispering to the prisoner, went out, and, after a brief delay, which seemed to many at the table long enough, returned with Matthew Smith. Chapter XLV. ‘That the villain expected nothing so lit- tle as to see the man he was prepared to rvin I can well believe, and equally that the ordeal, sudden and unforeseen, tried even his iron composure. I have heard that after glancing once at the duke he averted his eyes, and thenceforth looked and ad- éressed himself entirely to the end of the table where the king stood. But. this apart, it could not be denied that he played his part to a murvel. Known to more than one as a ruffling blade about town, who had grewn scber but not less and steadfast bearing made not unfavorable at Nor, when bidden by and say what he the expectations .Assure themselves | fore thi: me at} some measure to my lord’s control, who neither by word nor sign betrayed the as- tcnishment he felt when the man to whom for yeafs past he had only spoken casually, and once in six months, as it were, pro- ceeded to relate with the utmost fullness and particularity every detail of the jour- ney, which, as he said, they two had taken together to Ashford. At what time they started, where they lay. by what road they traveled, at all Smith was pat; nor did he stop there, but went on to relate with the same ease and exactness the heads of talk that had passed between Sir John and his companion at the inn. Nor was it possible that a Story so told, with minutiae, with date and place and circumstance, should fall on ears totally deaf. The men who listened were states- men, versed in deceptions and acquainted with affairs—men who knew Oates and had heard Dangerfield; yet they listened, they shut their eyes and reopened them, :o that this was not a dream! Before his appearance, even Lord Pcrtiand, whose distrust of English loyal- ty was notorious, had been inclined to ridi- cule Sir John’s story as a desperate card Played for life; and this oven in teeth of my lord’s disorder, so incredible did it ap- pear that one of the king’s principal minis- ters should stoop to a thing so foolish. Now, it was a sign pregnant of meaning that no one looked at his neighbor, but all gazed either at the witness or at the table before them. And some who knew my lord best, and had the most affection for him, felt the air heavy and the stiliness cf the room oppressive. Suddealy the current of the story was broken by the king’s harsh accent. “What was the date?” he asked, “on which you Teached Ashford?” “The 10th of June, sir.” “Where was the duke on that day?" Wil- Mam continued, and he turned to the lord steward. His tone and question, implying the most perfect contempt for the tale to which he was listening, go an extent broke the spell, and had the reply been satisfac- tery, all would have been over. But the Duke of Devonshire, turning to my lord for the answer, got only that he lay those two nights at his mother’s, in the suburbs, and thereon a blank look fell on more than one face. The king, indeed, sniffed and mut- tered: “Then twenty witnesses can contute this!” as if the answer satisfied him, and was all he had expected, but that others Were at gaze, and in doubt, was as notice- able, as that those who looked most solemn and thoughtful were the three who had themselves stood in danger that da At a nod from the king Smith resumed his tale; but in a moment he was pulled up short by Lord Dorset, who requested his majesty’s leave to put a question. Hav- ing got permission: “How do you say that the duke—came to take you with him?” the marquis asked, sharply. “To take me, my Jord?" “Must I answer that question?” wYes,” said Lord Dorset, with grimness. Well, simply because ‘I had becn the medium of communication between his ace and Sir John,” Smith answered drily. en as on former occasions I had acted as agent between his grace and Lord Mid- dieton.” My lord started violentiy and half rose. Then, as he fell back into his seat: “Th sir, 18 the first word of truth this perso: has spoken,” he said with dignity. “It is a fact that in the year "92 he twice brought me a note from Lord Midd and ar- ranged etween us. answered, with “as I arranged this meeting.” On hat, for the first time, my lord's self- control abandoned him. He started to his feet. “You lie," he cried, vehemently. “You lie in your teeth, you scoundrel! pardon me, but this i: 1 By s, the king : Then ‘Pesto! ing snuf? with‘a droll expr . “Will any one else ask a question. My Lord Dorset has not bee fortunate. As the advocatus diaboli perhaps, he may one day shine.” “If your majesty pleases,” Lord Marl- borough said, “I will ask one. But 1 will put it to Six John, and he can answer it cr not, as he like How did you know, Sir Jobn, that it was t Duke of Shrewsbury who met you at Ashford and conferrea with you there?” “y knew the dv Sir John answered Parl “I had seen him often, and spoken with him occasional! “How often had you spoken with him be- meeting? ssibly on a dezen occasions. ‘You h. not had any long conversation with him ‘ but I could not be mistaken. I know him,” Sir John added, with a flash of bitter meaning, “as well as I know you, Lord Marlborough!’ ‘He gave his title?” “No, he did not,” Sir John answered. He gave the name of Col. Talbo Some one at the table—it was Lord Port- land—drew. his breath sharply through his teeth; nor could the imy statemeat that at first bi Jess, and even ignored or mi: seemed harm- orable to the duks, be ken. Three out of four sat there were aware that my lora had used that name in his wild and boyish days, when he wou!d be incognito, and, moreover, the use of even that llimsy di Bulse t ort of d it probability over a story, which, at its barest, seemed cred- ible. For the first time, the balance of credit and probability swung against my lord, a fact subtly indicated by the silence which followed the stat brief while, ment and la no one at th thew Smith was f insolent triumph i aid somewhat. For the John took a lower seat. M minds were y with the duke, and the duke only; sy with what the result would be to him, and to the party, were this proved; while most, perceiving Guly and by instinct that they iouched a great tragedy, shrank from the denouement. At last, in the silence, the duke rose, and swaying blindly on his feet, caught at the table to steady himself. For two nights he n his had not slept. ‘Duk: said the king, “you had better speak sitting.” The words were meant in kindness, but they indicated a subtle change of attitude; they indicated that even the king now felt the need of explanation and a defense, and my lord, seeing this and acknowledg- “That is Not the Price.” ing the invitation to be seated, only by a slight reverence continued to stand, though the effort made his weakness evident. Yet when he had cleared his throat and spoke, his voice had the old ring of authority, with @ touch cf pathos added, as of a dying king from whose hand the scepter was passing. “Sir,” he said, “‘the sins of Colonel Talbot were not few. But this, to which this fel- low speaks, is not of the number. Nor have you, or my lords, to do with the: Doubt- less, with my fellows I shall have an account of them oné day. the present, and the Duke of Shrewsbury, with whom alone you have to deal, I will make a plain tale. This man has said that in "92 he was a go-between for me and Lord Middleton. It is true, as you, sir, know, and my lords if they know it not al- ready, must now know, to my shathe: For this fact, Lord Middleton and I were rela- tions, we met more than once at that time, we supped together before we went to France. I promised on my part to take care of his interests here, he in return of- fered to do me good offices there. As. to the him that I had offended forgiven, yet taci! 1 up his cure. I see that, my lords, and have known it, and it has weighed on me for years. And now I pay for it. But for this——" and with the word my lord’s voice grew full and round and he stood erect. oye hand among the lace of his steinkirk tie and his eyes turned steadfastly on his accuser, “for this which that man, pre- suming cn ancold fault and using his knowledge of would foist on me, I know nothing of it! know nothing of it. It is some base am jamnable practice. At this moment and hefe I cannot refute it, but at the proper tinje and in another place 1 shall refute it. And now and here i say, I am not guilty, on my As the last word rang through the room he sat down, lopking round him with a kind of vague defiance..\ There was a silence broken presently by ;the lord steward, who rose, his voice and’ manner betraying no little emotion. “His grace is right, sir, I think," he said. *I believe with him that this is some evil practice, but it is plain that it has gone so fer that it cannot stop here. I would suggest, therefore, that if your Majesty sees fit——” A knock at the door interrupted him, and he turned that. way impatiently, and paused. The kirg, too, glanced round with a gesture of annoyance. “See what it is,” he said. Sir William Trumball rose and went, and after a brief conference, during which the lords at the table continued to cast impatient glances toward the door, ie re- turned. “If it please you, sir." he said, “a witness desires to be heard. And with that, his face expressed so much surprise that the king stared at him in wonder. “A witness?” said the king; and_pished and fidgeted in his chair. Then “this is not a court of justice,” he continued peevishly. We shall have all the world here presently. But—well, let him in.” Sir William obeyed, and went and re- turned under the eyes of the council, nor will the reader who has perused with at- tention the earlier part of this history be greatly astonished to hear that when he re- turned, I, Richard Price, was with him. I am not going to dwell on the misery through which I had gone in anticipation of that appearance, the fears which I had been forced to combat, or the night watches through which I had lain, sweat- ing and awake. Suffice it that I stood there at last, seeing in a kind of maze the sober lights and dark, rich colors of the room, and the faces at the table all turned toward me; and stood there, not in the humble guise befitting my station, but in velvet and ruffles, sword and peruke, the very double, as the mirrors before which I had dressed had assured me, of my noble patron. This at Mr. Vernon’s suggestion at and by his contrivance. While I had lived in my lord’s house and moved to and fro soberly garbed, in a lie wig or my own hair, the likeness had been no more than ground for a nudge and a joke among the servants. Now, dressed once more, as Smith had dressed me, it suit of the duke’s clothes, and one of his perukes, and trimmed and combed by one who knew him, the resemblance I presented was so remarkable that none of the lords at the table could be blind to it. -One or two, in sheer wonder, exclaimed on it; while Sir John, who, poor gentieman, was more concerned than any, fairly “gasped with dismay. It was left to the Duke of Devonshire to break the spell. “What is this? Who is he said, in the utmost astonishment. at does it mean?” The king, who hed noted on an occasion that very liken hich all now saw, and was the first to read the riddle, laughed dryly. “Two very common things, lord,”” he said A rogue and a fool. Spex man,” he continued, addressing me. “You were in the duke’s household awhile ago? -ce pas ca? I saw you here?” , Your majesty,” i said, hardly keep- ing my fears within bounds. “And you ve been playing his part, I suppose? Eh? At—how do you call the place—Ashford “Yes, your majesty—under compulsion,” I Ald, trembling. ‘Ah! Compulsion of that good gentleman at the foot of the table, I suppose?” The words of assent were on my lips, when a cry, and an exceeding bitter cry, stayed their utterance. It came from Sir John. Dumfounded: for a time, between astonishment and suspicion, between won- der what this travesty was and wonder why it was assumed, he had at length dis- cerned fulf scope and meaning, and where it touched him: With a cry of rage he threw up his hands in protest against the fraud; then,in a flash he turned on the villain by’ hi “You d—d scoundrel!” he cried. “You have destroyed me! You haye murdered me!” S Before he could be held off his fingers were in Smith’s neckcloth and clutching his throat; stanch was his hold that Admiral ssell and Sir William e and drag him away , Sir John,” said the yinpathy.. ‘Be satis- deserts. Please God, Trumbaill had fed. Hi if I had him on my ship-an hour his back » will get hi 3’ ever was!” it were Pg, even to men shail I say of the who, denounced ment of trium; : bg-spun web s Doubtless he knew, as soon s he saw me, that the game was lost, and could have slain me with a look. And most men would withcut more ado have been on should be worse 5 John’s r: pairfal to witn of the world. ily azide? j their kne But he possessed, God knows, a courage as rare and perfect as the ca 3 in which he displayed it was vile and abominah erd in a twinkling he recover- ed him: Matth Smith once More. While the room raug with congratu- lations, question: wers and excluma- tions, and I had lo to answer one- half of the noble lords who would examire me, his volce, raised and strident, was heard abov> the tumult. Your majesty is easily deceived! he cried, his very tone, flouting the preseuce in which he stoo yet partly out of cu- riosity, partly in sheer astonishment of his audacity, they turned to listen. “Do you think it is for nothing his grace keeps a double in his house? Or that it boots much whether he or his secretary went to meet St. John? But enough! I have here, here,” he continued, tapping his breast and throwing back bis head, “that that shall outface him, be he never so clever. Does his double write his hand, too? Read that, sir. Read that, my lords, and ay what you think of your whig leader And with a reckless gesture he flung a letter on the table. But the action and werds were so lacking in respect for royal chamber that for a moment no one took it up, the English lords who sat within reach disdaining to touch it. Then Lord Port- land made a long arm, and taking the faper with Dutch phlegm and deiiberation opened it. “Have I your majesty’s leave?” he said, and the king nodded peevishiy. “This Is not his grace’s handwriting,” continued the Dutch iord. pursing up his lips and looking dubiously at the script before him. “No, but it is his signature!’ Smith re- torted fiercely. And so set was he on this last card he was playing that his eyes sterted from his head, and the veins rose trick on his hands, where they clutched the table before him. “It is his hana at the foot. That I swear!” = “Truly, my man, I think it is,” Lord Portland answered cooily. “Shall I read the letter, sir?” “What is it?* asked the king with iri- tation. "i a “It appears to bella letter to the Duke of Berwick at the lat® Bishop of Chester’s hovse in Hogsend ‘gardens, bidding him Icok to himeelf, as his lodging was known,” Lord Portland answered, leisurely running his eye down the linés as he spoke. It was wonderful ‘té see what a sudden gravity fell on the fates at the table. This touched some home,ithis was a hundred times more likely as’a charge than that which had fallen through. Could it be that, after all,the man had his grace on the hip? Lordi Marlborough showed his emotion by a dace-more than commonly serere. Admirai‘Russell by a sudden flush, Gcdolphin by the attention he paid to the table before bish. Nor was Smith behind- hand in noting,ithe effect produced. For an instant he tewered high, his stern face gleaming with «malevolent triumph. He thought that the tables were turned. ‘Then “In whase hand is the body of the parer?” thesking asked. “Your ‘najesty’s,”” Lord Portland an- swered, with a grim chuckle, and, after a pause Jong enough to accentuate the an- wer. , “I thought so,” said the king. “It was the Friday the plot was discovered! I re- member it. I am afraid that if you im- peach the duke you. must impeach me with ‘At that there was a great roar of laugh- ter, which had not worn out before one another began to press their tions on the duke., He, for his part, Bat aa jf Munned, anawering "with & torsed him; that it was a plot; that it was not his majesty’s hand, and so on, and so on, with oaths and curses and other things very unfit for his majesty’s ears or the Place in which he stood. Under these circumsiances, for a min- ute no one kiew what to do, each look- ing at his neighbor, until the lord stew- ard, rising from his chair, cried in a voice of thunder, “Take that man away! Mr. Secretary, this is your business! Out with him, sir!” On which Sir Wiliem cal.ed in the messengers, and they laid hands on him. By that time, however, he had re- covered the will and grim composure whica were tke man’s best characteristics, and, with a last malign and despairing look at my lord, he suffered them to lead him out. Chapter XLVI. That was a great day for my lord, but it was also, I truly believe, une of tbe saddest of a not unhappy life. He had gained the battle, but at a cost known only to himself, though guessed by some. Tne story of the old weakness had been teld, az he had foreseen it must be told, and even while his friends pressed round him and crying, Salve Imperator! rejoiced in the fall ho had given his voes, he was aware of the wound bleeding inwardly, aud in his mind was already borne out of the battie. < Yet in that room was one sadder, Sir Jonn, remaining at the foot of the table frowned along it, gloomy and downcust; too proud to ask or earn the king’s favor, yet shaken by the knowledge that now— now was the time; that in a little while the door would close on him, and with it the chance of I'fe—life with its sunshine and air and freedom, its whirligigs aud revenges. Some thought that in considcra- tion of the trick which had beea played upon kim the king might properly view him with indulgence; and were encouraged in this by the character for clemency which even his eremies allowed that sovereign. But William had other views on this occa- sion, and when the hubbub which Smigh’s removal had caused had completely died away, he addressed Sir John, advising him to depend rather on deserving his favor by a frank and full discovery than on such in- gericus contrivances as that which had just been exposed. “I was no party to it,” the unhappy gen- tleman answered. “Therefore it shall tell neither for nor against you,” the king retorted. “‘Have you anything more to say?” “I throw myself on your majesty’s clem- ency.” “That will not do, Sir John,” the king answered. “You must speak, or—the al- ternative does not lie with me. But you know it.” “Ard I choose it,” Sir John cried, recov- ering spirit and courage. “So be it,” said his majesty, slowly and ‘I will not say that 1 expected less from you. My lords, let anything him be removed.” And with that the messengers came in, and Sir John bowed and went with them. it may have been fancy, but I thought that as he turned from the table a haggard shade fell on his face, and a soul in mortai anguish looked an instant from his eyes. But the next moment he was gone. I never saw him again. That night the news was everywhere that Goodman, one of the two witnesses against him, had fied the country, and for a time it was believed that Sir John would escape. How, in face of that difficulty, those who w2ce determi i- ed on his death effected it, how he was attainted and how he suff2red on Tower Hill with all the forms and privil *ges of a peer—on the 28th of January of the suc- ling year—is a story too trite and fa- miliar to call for repetition. On his departure the council broke up, his majesty retiring. Before he went a word was said about me, and some who had greater regard for the post factum than the poenitentia were for sending me to the comptor, and leaving the law officers to deal with me. But my lord rousing him- self, interposed roundly, spoke for me and Would have given bail had they persisted. Seeing, however, how Sravely he took it, and being inclined to ptease him, they de- sisted, and I was allowed to go, on the simple condition that the duke Kept me under his own eye. This he very gladly consented to do. Nor was it the only kindness he did me, er the greatest; for having heard from me ut length and in detail all the circumstances leading up to my timely intervention, he sent for me a few days laier, and placing a paper in my hands bade me read the gist of it. I did so, and found it to be a free pardon passed under the great seal, and granted to Richard Price and Mary Price, his wife, for all acts and things done by them jointly or separat against the king’s most excellent majesty, within or without the reaim. it was at Eyford he handed me this: in the oak parlor, looking upon the bowling green, where I had already begun to wait upon him on one morning in the week to heck the steward’s accounts and tallies. he year was nearly spent, but that au- tumn was fine, and the suntizht which lay on the smooth turf blended with the russet splendor of the beech trees thai ris2 beyond. 1 had been thinking of Mary and the qu: courtyard at the hospital, which the bow!- ing green somewhat resembled, being open to the park on one side only, and. wh 5 perusing the paper, my lord, smiling at me, I came to her nams—or rather to the name that was hers and yet minc—I felt such a flow of remembrance, love and gratitude overcome me as left me speeches: nd this directed, not only to him, but to her— secing that it was her advice and her man- agement that had brought me against my will to this haven of safety. The duke saw my emotion and read my silence aright. “Well?” he said, “are you Satisfied?” I told him that if I were not I must be the veriest ingrate living. “And you have nothing more to ask?” he continued, still smilling. “Nothing,” I said. “Except—except that which is not in your lordship’s power to grant.” “How?” said he, with a pretense of sur- prise and resentment. “Not satisfied yet? What is it?” “If she were here!” I said. “If she were here, my lord! But Dunquerque—” “Is a far cry, eh? And the roads are bad. And the seas—"” “Are worse,” I said gloomity, looking at the paper, as Tantalus looked at the water. “And to get word to her is not of the easies! “No?” the duke said. “Say you so. Then what do you make of this, faint neart?” And he pointed through the open window. T looked, and on ithe seat—which a mo- ment before had been vacant, the seat under the right-hand yew hedge, where my lord sometimes smoked his pipe—I saw a girl seated, with her shoulder and the nape of her neck turned to us. She was making marks on the turf with a stick she held, and poring over them, when made, as if the world held nothing else, so that I had not so much as a glimpse of her face. But L knew that it was Mary. “Come,” said my lord, pleasantly. “We will go to her. It may be, she will not have the pardon after all. Seeing that there is a condition to it.” = “A conditicn and _ troubled. “To be sure, blockhead.” he answered in high good humor. ‘In whose name is it?” Then I saw what he meant and laughed, foolishly. But the event came nearer to proving him true than he then ex>ected. For when she saw the paper she stepped back and put her hands behind her, and would not touch or take it while her small face cried pale mutiny. ‘But I'll not tell?’ she cried. “I'll not tell! I'll not have it. Blcod-money does not thrive. If that is the price—” - “My gocd girl,” said my lord, cutting her short, but with great patience. “That is I cried, a little startled twas on my hacrtble on my resides ‘Texas, cured the dread- then that the cure. ) chair Fiat ihe | examination. not the price. This is the price. goes with him.” Se ee ee ee ee I believe that I have now told enough to discharge myself of that which I set out to do; I mean the clearing my lord in the eyes of all judicious persons of those imputations which a certain faction have never ceased to heap on him; and this with the greater assiduity and spite, since he by his single conduct at the time of the late queen's Geath was the means under providence of preserving the Protestant succession and liberties in these islancs. That during the long interval of seventeen years that sepurated the memorable meet- ing at Kensington which I have ventured to describe from the still more famous scene :‘n the queen's death chamber, he took no part in public life has seemed to some a crime on the tacit avowal of one. How far these err, and how ill-cualified they are to follow the workings of that noble mind, will appear in the pages I have written, which show with clearness that the retirement on which so much -tress has been la:d was due not to guilt, but to an appreciation of honor so delicate that a spot invisible to the common ¢ye seemed to him a stain non subito delenda. After the avowal made before his colleagues— of the communications, I mean, with Lord Middieton—nothing would do but he must leave London at once and seek in the shades and retirement of Eyford that peace of mind and ease of body which had for the moment abandoned him. « He went and ior a time still retained office. Later, notwithstanding the most urgent and flattering instances on the King’s part—which yet exist, honorable alike to the writer and the recipient—he persisted his resolution to retire, and on the 12th of December, 1698, being at that ume in very poor health, the conse- quence of a fall while hunting, he returned the seals to the king. In the autumn of the following year he went abroad, but though he found in a private life—so far as the life of a man of his princely station could be called private—a happ:ness often denied to placemen and favorites, he was not to be diverted when the time came from the post of danger. Were I writing an eulogium merely, I should here enumerate those great posts anc offices which he so worthiiy filled at the time of Queen Anne's death, when as icrd treasurer of Engiand, lord chamberlain and lord lieutenant of ireland—an agerega- tien of honors i believe without precedent— he performed services and controlled events on the importance of which his enemies, no less than his friends, are agreed. But 1 forbear, and leave the task io a worthier hand. This being so, it remains only to speak cof Matthew Smith and his accom- plice. Had my iord chosen to move in the Matter there can be no doubt that Smith would have been whipped and pilloried, and in this way would have come suddenly and by a short road to his deserts, But the duke held himself too high, and the man who had injured him too low for revenge, and Smith, after lying some months in prison, gave useful information and was 1eleased without prosecution. He then tried to raise a fresh charge against the duke, but gained no credence, and, rapidly sinking lower and lower, was to be seen two years later skuiking in rags in the darkest part of old Savoy. In London I must have lived in hourly dread of him; at Eyford I was safe, and after the winter of ‘99, in which year he came to my lord's house to beg. looking broken and diseased, I never saw him. . I was told that he expected to receive a rich reward in the event of the duke’s dis- grace, and on this account was indifferent to the Icss of his situation in my lady's family. It seems probable, however, that he still hoped t> retain his influence in that quarter by means of his wife, and thwarted in this by that evil woman's dis- quissal, was no better disposed to her than was to him. They separated; but be- fore he went the ruffian revenged himself by beating her so severely that she lay long ill in her apartments, was robbed by her landlady and finally was put to the door penniless and with no trace of the beauty which had once chained my heart. In this plight, reduced to be the drudge of a tradesman’s wife,.and sunk to the very position in which I had found her at Mr. D—"s, she made a last desperate effort to the duke for assistance. He answered by the grant of a pension, small but sufficient, on which she might have ended her days in a degree of com- fort. But having acquired in her former circumstances an unfortunate craving for drink, which she had now the power to gratify, she lived but a little while, and that in great squalor and misery, dying, if I remember rightly, in a public house in Spitalfields, in the year 1703. (The end.) ——- DRIVING AS A FINE ART. The English Whip is Imperturbable, the French Nervous. Walter Wellman in Chicago Times-Herald. The most striking contrast between Eng- lish and French character one may see is afforded by the drivers in Lordon and Psris. The London driver is the best in tho werld. No matter whe-her he is on the box of an omnibus or the high seat of a hansom cab, he knows his business through ard through. He is never nervous and ever makes his horse nervous. He rarely uses the whip. He is quiet and steady and alert. He takes chances that amaze inis passengers—slipping through narrow open- ings, where hub grazes hub. But the hubs never come into collision. One may stay in London a week witaout seeing a street accident, notwithstanding the wonderful congestion of tratfic, the appavently in tricable maze of horses and vehicles in the narrow thoroughfares. At some corner there is a gathering, a pressure, a crush. Lines of traffic crossing one another at right angles. To the average observer it jocks well nigh hopeless. Perhaps hours wiil have to be spent in unraveling the langle. But in a moment or two the po- iiceman waves his hand, the big omnibuses are set in motion, the hausoms take their preper places, the carts move along with the mass, ana almost befo-~ you kpow it all is clear. The London Griver, ‘n his calm, imperturbable way, is master of the situation. How different in Paris! There the drivers “re nervous and excitable. They whip their poor horses and swear at them. The ve- hicles dash about, often with hairbreadta escapes from collisions, and every now and then without escapes. When two vehicles cme together there is an explosion of tem- per and of language. The air is filled with blue smoke. One expects to see a murder or two committed before pis eyes. The herses are like their masters. They, too, are irritable and nervous, hard to control. Wide as most of the principal boulevards of Paris are, and with not one-fourth the traflic which surges through London's nar- row streets, the number of accidents there must be a dozen times greuzer than in ine English metropolis. These drivers of the two capitals are exemplars of the national characteristics of their respective coun- tries. In London the drivers are all licensed. No man can go upon the streets in charge of omnibus, hansom or cart without a license in his pocket. If he gets into trou- te once through his own fault he is fined and warned. The second time his license is taken away from him and he fs never al- lowed to drive again on the streets of Lon- don. Before drivers are given their licenses they are required to pass a civjl service It not in extracting tue square root or bounding Timbuctoo, either. It is in actual driving. They are taken into a yard where there are many posts set up in the pavement, and required to drive in and around these obstacles. They ave asked what street they would take in crder to go from one place to another at 10 o'clock in the morning, at 1 in the afternoon and at 4 o'clock. Unless they are able to tell the best routes all over the city at various times of the duy—indica:ing the thorough- fares which are ieast congsted “us the traf- fic shirts and changes—they cet no license. Our English friends know how to do many things better than we do, and this is one of —__—-+ee____ He Felt Relieved. “="™°1A School Girl’s Nerves. From the New Era, Greensburg, Ind. Mothers who have young danaghters of scl age should watch their health more carefully tham their studies. The proper development of their budy Is of the arst importance. After the con- Auement of the school rom plenty of out-of-deor exercise should be taken. It is better that their children mever dearm their a,b, c's than that hy learning them they lose thelr heslt But all this ts self-evident. Every one admits it—every cne knows it, but every cue does pot know bow to build them ap whe brokew down. The following methed of on. ” rightly applied, may save your daughs ‘The young lady was Miss Lucy I teon-year-old dangbter of Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, who Burney, Ind. bright young lady, is fond of books, alt progress in this Line has be oure they are mother, “near by the cousiderable amoant of experienced. She hax uisxed two of ber bad health, re been restored, Mer fatter was talking of her case to a news- Paper man one day recently. ~My daught had a very sccious time of it Mr. Barnes, but now We ure all happy to know that she i ing along all rizht and is stronger than Asked to relate the story his Barnes cou “About she was twelve years old, she began to « her studies, since her in three and nerver It was, of course, a deli for her, She gradually grew ker and nerves were at such g tension that the least Little noise would irritate her Very much, and <bo was very miserable, There was a continual twitching in the arms and lk Were afraid that xhe was Vitus dame. + Minbs, and w ug to develop St. “She kept getting wore, and finally we to take ber from school amd Was strong and healthy before, weiguing © five pounds, and in three months sie ha to sixty-three pounds, — She Was aliest Lifeless, |W for nd tried all the doctors who we U could do ber any good, but wit “There was an old family who had a danghter att she was cured by Dr. Willi People. “They came bere ¢ and they told us abe: was very niuch I did everything w) aunt Lucy's, and they Pink Pills for ber, ne id by the boxes of the medicine sh: ne took tor was he last dese in April nd shuioe, ix now stu ever, weighs ten pounds more than and ber + » full of gratify her ambition to study cated woman.” All the elements ne chines to the tod and restore sl e contaired, in a condensed form, uk Polls for T specific for trou! SCPprexsion. Rers, v essary to shy mental nature. (a Dr. r in lo ane inay mail fi toulisy av be Dr, ¥. Ministers ns Business Men, From the Church Economist. The idea that clereymen ness men is pronoun false by ex-Post- master General Thomas L. James, now president of the Lincoln National Bank in this city. He sa “We have among our depositors a large number of clergymen, and I am free to say that they are about the best business men that I have ever known. You ordinarily call a man who is intelligent, methodical and ompt a gi business man. Our ministerial deposit re more than methodical and prompt, They arg clever and sharp, especially in the keeping of accounts. I de not wish to make any exceptions my £ ral acterization of clergymen as good business men, but I will eay that the Roman Catho- re poor bus lic clergymen—those that I hav —are remarkably able b: seem, to be especially t wa, The average clergyman of however, can hold his own with the aver- age business man. A clergyman of the present day cannot afford to be slipshod or negligent in worldly affairs.” ee ee Centennial of the From the Detroit Free Press. It is just one hurdred years since the completion of the first canal jock at Sault Ste, Marie, and there mow exists at this point the firest and largest canal system in the world. It is said that more tratlic passes here than any other point in the world. The first caral lock was built in denomination, iv at Sault Ste. M to enable the Jarge four and six-oare] boats of the Hed- son Kay Company to pass from Lak« perior into Lake Huron. An iron raf! has been put around this lock to py it as an historical souvenir, Th Sault canal was completed in Se ; at a cost of four million ac to the Canadian vernment. It is two-thirds of a mile in le has one lock 99 feet long by ©) feet wide, with feet of w r on the sill, and t with other @anals Within the Canadian lines, forms from the straits of Belle Isle to t of Lake Supe 4 miles. The lock on the A at Sault Marie was finis . as much as the Caradian lock, being larger and deever. —-eee In the Twenti ry. From Puck. s ‘And was silver once a preci His father—“Yes; at one time silver was more valuable than coal.” Every thoughtful man whether he be an ar- tist ora busi- ness man, @ mechanic or farmer, feels that he has a cer tain work to do in this world, and he wants to complete i A brave man’s prin- cipal fear ef death is because it compels him to leave his life- work unfinished. He fears sickness for the same reason. He feels that he might as well break his neck 6% and done with, as to have his best working powers hampered and wasted away by dis- ease. To have the brain dulled and the bodyen- feebled by impure bile-poisoned blood, isno better than a living death, with all its horri- ble accompaniments of dyspepsia, nervous- ness and melancholy. The best thing in the world to restore clear-headed energetic vitality and working power is Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Di; covery. Itatts directly upon the liver and digestive organ: Cy heey power to ma’ ufacture rich, healthy blood free from bil: ous poisons and morbid impurities. - It fills the blood with the red life-giving , It replaces wasted tissue with healthy flesh and solid muscular strength. By feeding the brain and nerves with vital energy, it banishes neuralgia and nervous weakness and si: 5 It is better than malt extracts or oily emulsions. It is not a mere temporary stimulant but a juine and lasting nutri- ent, easily assimi! by the weakest stom- Green, Esq., of Williamsburg, Callaway io. writes: “Before I commenced your = I could not take a driuk of water wit! was fast slung. 1 had five ‘me, and cach onc treated | i if ft He