Evening Star Newspaper, October 16, 1897, Page 19

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1897—24 PAGES. (Copyright, 1897, by A. H. Hawkins.) Written for The Evening Star. CHAPTER 1. The Child of Prophecy. One that was in his day a person of great Place and consileration, and has left a name which future generations shall surely Fepeat so long as the world may last, found no better rule for a man’s life than that he should incline his mind to move in charity, rest in Providence amd turr upon the poles of truth. This condition, says he, is heaven upon earth, and although what touches truth may better befit the philosopher who uttered it than the vulgar and unlearned, for whom, perhaps, it {s a counsel too high, and therefore dangerous, what comes be- fore should surely be graven by each of us on the watis of our hearts. For any man who lived in the days that I have seen must have found much need of trust in Providence, and by no whit the less of charity for men. In such trust and charity I have striven to write; in the like I pray you to read. I, Simon Dale, was born on the seventh Gay of the seventh month in the year of our Lord 1647. The date was good in that the e number was thrice found in it, but at it fell on a time of sore trouble both for the nation and for our own house; when men had begun to go about saying that if the king would not keep his prom- ises, it was likely that he would Keep his head as little, when they who had fought for freedom were suspecting that victory had brought new tyrants, when the vicar was put out of his cure, and my father, having trusted the king ‘first, the parita- ment afterward, and at last neither the one nor the other, had lost the greater part of hi tance, and fallen from wealth to Siraitened mean uch is the common re- ward of xn honest patriotism wedded to an However, the date, good or was none of my doing, nor, indeed, whispere much of my _ parents’ that destiny overruled the af- . and Betty Na: th, the wise woman, i its imminence more than a year beforehand. For she predicted the birth on the very whereon I came into the world w a mile of the parish church of a male child who—and the utterance had certainly a lefty sound out it—should love what the king loved, know what the king h and drink of the king’s cup. ow, inasmuch as none lived within the Betty save on the one side sundry humble laborers, whose ¥ could expect no . and on other my Lord and Lady Quinton, who ‘¢ wedded but a month before my birth- the prophecy was fully as pointed as it had any need to be, and caused to my parents no small questionings. It was the third clause or term of the prediction that gave most concern alike to my mother and to my father: to my mother because al- though of discreet’ mind and a sound churchwoman, she was from her earliest pabite, and had never heard of nk ow: : and to my father f his decayed estate, which made ble for him to contrive how prop- erly to fit me for my predestined comps ve howld not drink the king's wine the king as good,” my ruefully. Meanwhile, I, at all about the matter, was to prove Betty right in point of the 1 leaving the rest ‘to the future, d this triumph for her most pune oever may await a man on his way through the world, he can hardly begin life better than by keeping his faith with a la was a strange oid woman, this Betty roth, and would likely enough have badly in the time of the king’s father. there was bigger game than witches afoot, and nothing worse befell her than cow.s of her neighbors and the fright- 1 mockery of children. She made free ith curses and dark mutterings, but ved as being the child of her all the more because, encoun- tering he I rode in my mother’s arms, I did not ery, but held out my arms, crow- ing and ing to get to her; whereat, sudde nd to my moth: great terror, Thou see’st Satan!” and thing which, as every an in the parish knew, a person abso- lutely pe d by the evil one can by no means ac h (unless, indeed, a bare three droy ed from the left eye may usurp the name of tears). r shrank away from her, allow her to touch me; ad grown older and . ne that the old wo- having tracked me to a lonely spot, me in her arms, mumbled over re some words I ¢id not understand a me. That a mole grows on the spot ssed is but a fable—for how do the man, to. ok men know where her kiss fell, sav where the mole gro’ And that or at most the pure it were more I am conte! does me no harm, and th pme Words and Kissed Me. | id Betty some good; off to the vicar (who was sacred @ whole partake S supper; a requ jai to the neighbors to the vicar bim- ned man and de from his heart play her p: better. he to my father, “a ton- is," said my know wh: €arnest) * father (and I do not er he spoke perversely or in ‘a matter of no moment.” Now. being steadfastly determined that my boyhood shall be less tedicus in th telling than it was in the iiving—for I longed always to be a man, and hated my kreen and petticoat-governed days—I will pass forthwith to the hour when I reached the age of eighteen years. My dear father was then in heaven, and old Betty had found, as was believed, another billet. But my mother lived, and the vicar, like the kirg, had come to his own again, and 1 was five feet eleven in my stockings, and there was urgent need that I should set about pushing my way and putting money fn my purse; for our lands had not re- turned with the king, and there was no More tucoming than might serve to keep my mother and sisters in the estate of gen- tewomen. “And on that matter,” observed the ¥iecar, stroking his nose with his fore- finger, as his habit was in moments of perplexity, “Betty Nasroth’s prophecy is of small service. For the doings om which she touches are likely to be occasions of expense rather than sources of gain.” “They would be money wasted,” said my Mother, gently, “one and all of them.” The vicar looked a Mttle doubtful. “I will write a sermon on that theme,” said he, for this was with him a favorite way out of an argument. In truth, the vicar Ioved the prophecy, as often a quict student loves a thing that echoes of the world which he has shunned. “You must write down for me what the king says to you, Simon,” he told me on “Suppose, sir,” I suggested, mischie' ously, “that it should not be fit for your eye?” “Then write. it, Simon,” he answered, pinching my ear, “for my understanding. it was well enough for the vicar’s whim- sical fancy to busy himself with Betty Nasroth’s prophecy, half-believing, half- mocking, never forgetting, nor disregard- ing, but I, who am—after all—the most concerned, doubt whether such a dark ut- terance be a wholesome thing to hang round a young man’s neck. The dreams ef youth grow rank enough without such watering. The prediction was always in my mind, alluring and tantalizing as a teasing girl who puts her pretty face near yours, safe that you dare not kiss it. What it said I mused on, what it said not I neglected. I dedicated my idle hours to it, and not appeased, it invaded my se: sons of business. Rather than seek my “What I have learned at Quinton manor, I answered with a bow. “That doesn’t prove her pretty,” retorted the angry lady. “There's more than one way of it,” said I, discreetly, and I took a step toward the visitor, who stood some ten yards from us, laughing still and plucking a flower to Pieces in her fingers. “She is not known to you?” asked Bar- bara, perceiving my movement. “I can remedy that,” said I, smiling. Never since the world began had youth been a more faithful servant to maid than 1 to Barbara Quinton. Yet because, if a man lie down, the best of girls will set her pretty foot on his neck, and also from my love of a thing that is new, I was thor- oughly resolved to accost the gardener’s guest, and my purpose was not altered by Barbara's scornful toss of her little head as she turned away. “Jt is no more than civility,” I protested, “to ask aftér her health, for, coming from London, she can but just have escaped the plague. Barbara tossed her head again, declar- ing plainly her opinion of my excuse. = “But if you desire me to walk with you—’ I began. 3 “There is nothing I thought of less,’ she interrupted. “I came here to be alone. “My pleasure Hes in obeying you,” said I, and I stood bareheaded while Barbara, without another glance at me, walked off toward the house. Half penitent, yet wholly obstinate, I watched her go. She did not once look over her shoulder. Had she—but a truce to that. What passed is enough; with what might have my story would stretch to the world’s end. I smothered my remorse and went up to the stranger, bidding her good-day in my most polite and courtly manner. She smiled, but at what I knew not. She seemed little more than a child, sixteen years old or seventeen at the most, yet there was no confusion in her greeting of me. Indeed, she was most marvelously at her ease, for on my salute she cried, lifting her hands in feigned amazement: “A man, by my faith, a man in this Flace!” Well pleased to be called a man. I bowed again. : “Or at least,” she added, “what will be one if it please heaven.” MY FAITH” own path, I left myself to its will and hearkened for its whispered orders. “It was the same,” observed my mother, sadly, “with a certain cook maid of my sister's. It was foretold that she should iarry her master. ‘And did she not?” cried the vicar, with ears all pricked up. ‘She changed her service every year, said my mother, “seeking the likeliest man, until at last none would hire her.” “She should have stayed in her first vice,” said the vicar, shaking his head. But her first master had a wife,” re- torted my mother triumphantly. “T had one once myself,” said the vicar. The argument, with which his widowhood supplied the vicar, was sound and unan- swerable, and it suited well with my hu- mor to learn from my mother’s cook maid, and wait patiently on fate. But what avails an argument, be it ever so sound, against an empty purse? It was declared that 1 must seek my fortune; yet on the method of my search some difference arose. You must work, Simon,” said my sister | Luey, who was betrothed to Justice Bar- nard. a young squire cf good family and high repute, but mighty hard on idle va- eramts, and free with the stocks for revel- ers. ‘You must pray for guidance,” said my sister Mary, who was wedded to a saintly rgyman, a prebend, too, of the cathedral. There is," said I’ stoutly, “nothing of uch matters in Betty Nasroth’s prophec: ‘They are taken for granted, dear boy. id my mother gently. The vicar rubbed his nose. Yet not these exceiient and zealous coun- sellots proved right, but the vicar and I. For had I gone to London as they urged, instead of abiding where I was, agreeably to the vicar’s argument and my own in ration, it is a great question whether the placue would not have proved too strong for Betty Nasroth, and her prediction gone to lie with me in’ a death pit. As things befell I lived, hearing only dim- ly, and, as it were, from afar off of that great calamity, and of the horrors that be- set the city. For the disease did not come our way, and we moralized on the sins of the townsfolk with sound bod tented minds. We were happy in our heaith and in our virtue, and not disinclined to ap- plaud God's judgment that smote our err- ing brethren, fer too often the chastisement of one sinner feeds another's pride. Yet the plagte nad a hand, and no smail one, in that destiny of mine, although it came not near me; for it brought fresh tenants to those same rooms in the gardeners cot- tage where the vicar had dwelt till the loy- : parliament's act proved tco hard for the elence of our independent minister, and $ and con- the vicar, nothing loth, moved back to his Ps ze. Now, I was walking one day, as I had full license and leave to walk, in the ave- nue of Quinton manor, when I saw, first, What I bad (if I am to tell the truth) come to see, to wit, the figure of young mistress Barbara, daintily arrayed in a white sum- mer gown. Barbara was pleased to hold herself haughtily toward me, for she was n_ heir and of a house that had not fallen in the world as mine had. Yet we were friends, for we sparred and rallied, she giving offense and I taking it, she par- doring my rudeness and I accepting for- giveness. while my lord and my lady, per- haps, thinking me too low fer fear, and yet high enough for favor, showed me much kindness. My lord, indeed, would often jest_with me on the great fate foretold me in Betty Nasroth’s prophecy. “Yet,” he would say, with a twinkle in his e “the king has strange secrets, and there is some strange wine in his cup, and to love what he loves—" but at this point the vicar, who chanced to be by, twinkled aiso, but shifted the conversation to some theme which did not touck the king, his secrets, his wine. cr what he loved. Thus then I saw, as I say, the slim, tall figure, the dark hair, and the proud eyes of Barbara Quinton; and the eyes were flashing in anger as their owner turned away from—what I had not looked to see in Barbara’s company. This was another damsel, of lower stature and plumper fig- ure, dressed full as prettily as Barbara herself, and lavghing with most merry tips and under eyes that half hid them- selves in an eclipse of mirth. When Bar- bara saw me she did not, as her custom was, feign not to see me till I thrust my | presence on her, but ran to me at once, ery- ing very indignantly, “Simon, who is this girl? She has dared to tell me that my gown is of country make, and hangs like an old smock on a beanpole. “Mistress Barbara,” I answered, “who heeds the make ef the gown when the wearer is of divine make?” I was young then and did not know that to compliment herself at the expense of her apparel is not the best way to please a woman. Sten are silly,” said Barbara. “Who is she?” “The girl,” I said, crestfallen, “is, they tell me, from London, and she lodges with her mother in your gardener’s cottage. But 1 didn’t look to find her here in the avenue.” “You shall not again, if I have my way,” said Barbara. Then she added abruptly and sharply, “‘Why do you look at her?” Now it was true that I was looking at the stranger, and on Barbara's question 1 looked the harder. “She is mighty pretty,” said I. “Does she not seem so to you, Mistress Barbara? And, simple though I was, I spoke not al- together in simplicity. “Pretty?” achoed Barbara. “And pray what do you know of prettiness, Master Simon?” “You may live to see it without growing wrinkled,” said I, striving to conceal my annoyance. “And one that has repartee in him! rvelous!” ? e do not all lack wit in the countr madame,” said I, simpering as I supposed the court gallants to simper, “nor since the plague came to London, beauty.’ “Indeed, it's wonderful,” she cried in mock admiration. “Do they teach such sayings hercabouts, sir? madame, and from such books as your eyes furnish.” And for all her air of mockery I wa: pleased with this speech. from some well-thumbed romance, I doubt not. I was ever an eager reader of such silly things. She courtesied low, laughing up at me with roguish eyes and mouth. “Now, surely, sir,” she said, “you must he Simon Dale, of whom my host, the gar- dener, speaks.” “It is my name, madame, at your service. But the gardener has played me a trick for now I have nothing to give in exchange for your name.” Nay, you have a very pretty nosegay in your hand,” said she. “I might be per- suaded to barter my name for it.” The nosegay that was in my hand I had gathered and brought for Barbara Quinton, and I still meant to use it as a peace offer: ing. But Barbara had treated me harshly, and the stranger looked lovingly at the nosegay. “The gardener is a niggard with his flowers,” she said with a coaxing smile. “To confess the truth,” said I, wavering in my purpose, “the nesegay was plucked for another.” “It will smell the sweeter,” she cried with a laugh. “Nothing gives flowers such a perfume.” And she held out a wonderfully small hand toward my nosegay. “Is that a London lesson?” I asked, hold- ing the flowers away from her grasp. “It holds good in the country also, sir; wherever, indeed, there is a man to gather flowers and more than one lady who loves smelling them.” “Well,” said I, “the nosegay is yours at the price,” and I held it out to her. 2 What, do you desire to know Oh, as I remember, much It had come indeed, I may call you one of my said I with a glance that e been irresistible. “Would you use it in speaking of me to Mistress Barbara there? No. I'll give you te call me by. You may call me ! A fine name!” “It is,” said she carelessly, “as good as any other.” “But there no other to follow it?” “When did a poet ask two names to head his sonnet? And surely you wanted mine for a sonnet? “So be it, Cydaria,” said 1. “So be it, Simon. And is not Cydaria as pretty as Barbara? e “It has a strange sound,” said I, “but it is well enough.” “And now—the nosegay!” = “I must pay a reckoning for this,” I sighed; but since a bargain is a bargain I gave her the nosegay. She took it, her face all alight with smiles, and buried her nose in it. I stood looking at her, caught by her pretty ways and graceful boldness. Boy though I was, I had been right in telling her that there are many ways of beauty; here were two to start with, hers and Barbara's. She looked up and, finding my gaze on her, made a little grimace as though it were only what she had expected, and gave her no more concern than pleasure. Yet at such a look Barbara would have turned cold and distant for an hour or more. Cydaria; smiling in scornful indul- gence, dropped me another mocking cour- tesy, and made as though she would go her way. Yet she did not go, but stood with her head half averted, a glance straying toward me from the corner of her eye, while with her tiny foot she dug the gravel of the avenue. “It is a lovely place, this park,”’ said she, “but, indeed, it’s often hard to find the way about it.” I was not backward to take her hint. “If you had a guide, now—” I began. “Why, yes, if I had a guide, Simon,” she whispered, gleefully. “You could find the way, Cydaria, and your guide would be most—’ “Most charitably engaged. But then—” she paused, drooping the corners of her mouth in sudden despondency. “But what then?” ott then, Mistress Barbara would be jone.”” I hesitated. I glanced toward the house. I looked at Cydaria. “She told me that she wished to be alone,” said L. ‘No. How did she say it?” “I will tell you all about that as we go along,” said I, and Cydaria laughed again. * The debate is years old; not, indeed, quite So old as the world, since Adam and Eve cannot for want of opportunity have fallen out over it, yet descending to us from un- known antiquity. But it has never yet been set at rest by general consent. The quarrel over ive obedience is nothing to it. It seems such a small matter, though, for the debate I mean turns on no greater question than this: May a man who owes allegiance to one lady justify by any train of reasoning his luct in snatching a kiss from another, (this other being (for it is important to have the terms right) not {so far as can be judged) unwilling? I maintained that he might. be sure, my Position admitted of 4, other argument, and, for the most At js & man's state his reasons that induce which. determines ents and not is state. Barbara declared’ that he could not; though to be sure, it was, as she added Most promptly, no eoncern of hers; for she cared not whether I wi in lové or not, nor how deeply, not with whom, nor, in a word, anything at ail about the matter. It was an abstract opinion she gave, so far as love, or what men choose to call such, might be involved; as to seemliness she must confess that she had her view, with which, maybe, Mr. Dale was not in agreement. The girl at the gardener’s cottage must, she"did not doubt, agree whelly with Mr, Dale; how otherwise would she have suffered the kiss in an open space in the park, where anybody might pass— and where, in fact (by the most perverse chance in the world), pretty Miss Barbara herself passed at the moment when the thing occurred? However, if the matter could ever have had the smallest interest for her—save in so far as it touched the reputation of the village and might afford an evil example to the village maidens-— it could have none at al? now, seeing that she set out the next day to London, to take her place as maid of honor to her royal highness, the duchess, and would have as little leisure as inclination to think of Mr. Simon Dale or of how he chose to amuse himself when he believed that none was watching. Not that she had watched; her presence was of the purest and most un- welcome chance. Yet she could not but be glad to hear that the girl was soon to go back whence she came, to the great relief (she was sure) of Madame Dale and of her dear friends, Lucy and Mary; to her love for whom _ nothing—no, nothing—should make any difference. For the girl herself she wished no harm, but she conceived that her mother must be ill at ease concerning her. It will be allowed that Mistress Barbara had the most of the argument, if not the best. Indeed, I found little to say, except that the village would be the worse by so much, as the Duchess of York was the bet- ter for Mistress Barbara’s departure. The civility won me nothing but the haughtiest courtesy and a taunt. “Must you rehearse your pretty speeches on me before you venture them on your friends, sir?’ she asked. “I am at your mercy, Mistress Barbara,’ I pleaded. “Are we to part enemies?” She made me no znswer, but I seemed to see a softening in her face as she turned away toward the window, whence were to be seen the stretch of the lawn and the park meadows beyond. I believe that with a little more coaxing she would have par- doned me, but at that instant, by another stroke of perversity, a small figure saun- tered across the sunny fields. The fairest sights may sometimes come amiss. “Cydaria! A fine name,” said Barbara, with curling lip. “I'll wager she has rea- sons for giving no other.” i “Her mother gives another to” the gar- dener,”” I reminded her, meekly. = Names are as easy given as—as kisses,” retorted. “As Be Cyaaeis my lord ays it is a name out of a play.” Sexi this while we had stood at the win- dew, watching Cydaria’s light feet trip across the meadow, and her bonn swing wantonly In her hand. But now Cydavia disappeared among the trunks of the beech res. ‘See, she Is gone,” sald I, In a whisper. “She is gone, Mistress Barbara.” Barbara understood what I would say, but she was resolved to show me no gen: tleness. The soft tones of my voice had been for. her, bt she would not accept their homage. You need not sigh for that before my face,” said she. “And yet sigh If you will. What is it to me? But she is not gone far, and, doubtless, will not tun too fast when you pursue. “When you are in London,” said I, “you will think with remorse of how ill you used me.” “T shall never think of you at all. Do yeu forget that that there are gentlemen of wit and breeding at the court? “The devil fly away with cvery cne of them!” cried I, suddenly, not knowing then how well the better part of them would match their escort. 5 Barbara turned to me; there was a gleam of triumph in the depths of her dark eye: “Perhaps when you hear of me at court, she cried, “you'll be sorry to think how—” But she broke off suddenly aad Icoked out of the window. You'll find a husband there,” ted, bitterly. “Like enough,” said she, carelessly. To be plain, I was in no happy mood. Her going grieved me to the heart, and that she should go thus incensed stung me more yet. I was jealous of every m in London town; had not my argu then, some reason in it, after all? “Fare you well, madame,” said I, with a heavy frown and a sweeping bow. No player from the Lane could have been more tragi Fare you well, sir. I will not detain you, for you have, I know, other farewells to make.” “Not for a week yet!” I cried, goaded to a show of exultation that Cydaria stayed so long. “I don't doubt that you will make good use of the time,’’ she said, as with a fine dignity she waved me to the door. Girl as she was, she had «aught or inherited the grand air that great ladies use. Gloomily I passed out, to fall into the hands of my lord, who was walking on the terrace. He caught me by the arm, laugh- ing in good-humored mockery. “You've had a touch of sentiment, eh, you rogue?” said he. “Well, there’s little harm in that, since the girl’ leaves us to- merrow. ‘Indeed, my lord, there was ilttle harm,” said I, long faced and rueful. S little as my lady herself could wish.” (At this he smiled and nodded.) “Mistress Barbara will hardly so much as look at me.” He grew graver, though the smile still hung about his lips. “They gossip about you in the village, Simon,” said he. “Take a friend’s counsel ard don’t be so much with the lady at the cottage. Come, I don't speak without rea- sen." He nodded at me as a man nods who means more than he will say. Indeed, not a word more would he say, so that wken I left him I was even more angry than when I parted from his daughter. And, the nature of man being such as hea- ven has made it, what need to say that I bent my steps to the cottage with all con- venient speed? The only weapon of an ill- used lover (nay, I will not argue the rier? its of the case again) was realy to my band. Yet my impatience availed little, for there, on the seat that stood by the door, sat my good friend the vicar, disc .ursing in pleasant leisure with the lady who named herself Cydaria. “It is true,” he was saying. “I fear it is true, though you're over young to have learned it.” “There are schools, sir,’ she returned, with a smile that had (or so it seemed to me) a touch—no more—of bitterness jn it, where such lessons are early learned.” “They are best let alone, those schools,” said he. “And what's the lesson?” I asked, draw- ing nearer. Neither answered. The vicar rested his hands on the bail of ois cane and suddealy began to relate old Betty Nasroth’s proph- ecy to his companion. F cannot tell what led his thoughts to tt; but it was never far from his mind when I was by. She listened with attention, smiligjg brightly in whimsi- cal amusement when the fateful words, pronounced with due solemnity, left the vicar's lips. : . “It ig a strange saying,” he ended, “of which time alone can show the truth. She glanced at me with merry eyes, yet with a new sort of interest. It is strange the hold these superstitichs have on all of us, though surely fature ages will out- grow such childishnéss, “I don’t know what:the prophecy means,” said she, “yet one thing at least would seem ne2ful for its: fulfliment—that Mr. Hel should become ‘acquainted with the “True,” cried the vicar eagerly. “Every- thing stands on that, and on that we stick. or Simon cannot love where the king loves, nor know what the king hides, nor drink of the king’s cup if he abide all his days here in Hatchstead, Come, Simon, the plague is gon “Should I then be gone, too?” I asked. “Yet to what end? I have no friends in London who would bring me to the notice of the king.” The vicar shook his head sadly. I had ro such friends, and the king had proved before now that he could forget many a better friend to the throne than my dcar father’s open mind had made of him. “We must walt, we must wait still,” said the vicar. “Time will. find a friend.” Cydaria had become pensive for a mo- ment, but she looked up now, smiling again, and said to me: “You'll soon have a friend in London.” Thinking of Barbara, I answered gloom- ly, “She's no friend of mine.” “I did not mean whom you mean,” said ‘Cydaria with twin! eyes and not a whit put out. “But I also am going to London.” she I sug- 19 I smiled, for it did not seem as though she would be a powerful friend or able to open any way for me. But she met my smile with another so full of confidence and challenge that my attention was wholly caught, and I did not heed the vicar’s fare- well as he rose and left us. “And would you serve me,” I asked, “if you had the power?” “Nay, put the question as you think i said she. ‘Would you have the power to serve me if you had the will? Is not that the doubt in your mind?” “And if it were?” “Then, indeed, I do not know how to answer, but strange things happen there in lon, and it may be that some day even I should have some power.” “And would you use it for me?” “Could I do less on behalf of a gentle- man who has risked his mistress’ favor for my poor cheek’s sake?” And she fell to laughing again, her mirth growing greater as I went zed in the face. “You mustn’t blush when you come to town,” she cried, “or they'll make a ballad on you and cry you in the str2ets for a mon- ster.” “The oftener comes the cause the rarer shall the effect be,” said I. “The excuse is well put,” she conceded. “We should make a wit of you in town.” “What do you in town?” I asked square- ly, looking her full in the eyes. “Perhaps sometimes,” she laughed, “what I have done onc2—and to your good knowl- edge—since I came to the country.” Thus she would baffle me with jesting aLswers as often as I sought to find out who and what she was. Nor had I better for- tune with her mother, for whom I had small liking, and who had, as it seemed, no more for me. For she was short in her talk, and frowned to see me with her daughter. Yet she saw me, I must confess, often with Cydaria in the next few Jays, and I was often with Cydaria when she did not see me. For Barbara was gone, leaving me both sore and lonely, all in the mood to find comfort where I could, -nd to see manlixess in desertion; and there was a charm about the girl that grew on me insensibly and without my will, until I came to love, not her (as I believed, for- getting that love loves not to mark his boundaries too strictly), but her merry temper, her wit and cheerfulness. How- ever, these things were mingled and spiced with others, more attractive than all to unfledged youth, an air of the world and a knowledge of life which piqued my curios- ity, and sat (it se2ms so even to my later mind as I look back) with bewitching in- congruity on the laughing child's face and the unripe grace of girlhood. Her moods were endless, vying with one another in an ever undetermined struggle for the prize of greatest charm. For the most part she was merry, frank mirth passing into sly raillery. Heigho, that I could stay in the sweet, innocent country.” Or again she would show or ape an uneasy con- science, whispering, “Ah, that I were like your Mistress Barbara.” The next mo- ment she would be laughing and jesting and mocking, as though life were naught but a great many-colored bubble, and she the brightest tinted gleam on it. It was a golden summer’s evening when I, to whom the golden world was all a hell, came by tryst to the park of Quinton man- or, there to bid Cydaria farewell. Mother ard sisters had looked askance at me, the village gossiped, even the vicar shook a kindly head. What cared I? By heaven, why was one man a nobleman and rich, while another had no money in his purse and but one change to his back? Was not love all in all, and why did Cydaria laugh at a truth so manifest? There she was un- der the beech tree, with her sweet face screwed up to a burlesque of grief, her lit- Ue hand lying on her hard heart, as though it beat for me, and her eyes the play- ground of a thovsand quick expressions. I strode up to her and caught her by the hand, saying no more than just her name, “Cydaria.” It seemed that there was no more to say; yet she cried, laughing an reproachful, “Have you no vows for me? Must I go without my tribute?” I loosed her hand and stood away from her. On my soul, I could not speak. I was tongue-tied, dumb as a dog. “When you come courting in London,” she said, “you must not come so empty of lover's baggage. There ladies ask vows, and protestations, and despair, aye, and poetry and rhapsodies, and I know not what.” “Of all these I have nothing but despair,” said J. “Then you make a sad lover,” she pouted. “And I am glad to be going where lovers arc less woebegon: “You leok for iovers in London,” I cried, I that had cried to Barbara—well, I have said my say on that.” “If heaven sent them,” daria. “And you will forget me?” “In truth, yes, unless you come yourself to reraind me. I have no head for absent answered Cy- if I come——” I began, in a sudden flush of hope. She did not, though it was her custom, answer in raillery. She piucked a leaf from the tree and tore it with her fingers as she answered with a curious glance: “Why, if you come, I think you'll wish that you had not come, unless, indeed, you've forgotten me before you come.” “Forget you! Never while I liv I come, Cydaria?” “Most certainly, sir, so soon as your wardrobe and your purse allow. Nay, don’t be huffed. Come. Simon, sweet Simon, are we not friends, and may not friends rally one another? No, and if I choose, I will put my hand through your arm. Indeed, sir, you’re the first gentle- man that ever thrust it that way. See, it is there now. Doesn't it look well there, Simon—and feel well there, Simon?” She looked up into my face in coaxing apology for the hurt she had given me, and yet still with mockery of my tragic airs. “Yes, you must by all means come to Lon- don,” she wert ou, patting my arm. “Is not Mistress Barbara In London? And 1 thirk—am I wrong, Simon—t! there is something for which you will want to ask her pardon. “If I come to London, it is for y you only that I shall come,” I cried. “No, no. You will come to love what the king loves, to know what he hides, and to drink of his cup. I, sir, cannot interfere with your great destiny.” She drew away from me, courtesied low, and stood oppo- site to me, smiling. ‘For you and for you only,” I repeated. “Then wil! the king love me?” she asked. “God forbid,” said I fervent! ya, and why, pray, your ‘God forbid?’ You're very ready with your ‘God forbids.” Am I, then, to take your love sooner than the king’s, Master Simon?” “Mine is an honest love,” said I soberly. “Oh, I skould dote on the country, did not everybody talk of his honesty there. I have seen the king in London, and he is a tine gentleman.” “And you have seen the queen also, may- Mey ju, and “In truth, yes. Ah, I have shocked you, Simon. Well, I was wrong. Come, we're in the country, we'll be good. But when we've made a townsman of you, we'll— we will be what they are in town. More- over, in ten minutes I am going home, and it would be hard if I also left you in anger. You shall have a pleasanter memory of my going than Mistress Barbara left you.” “How shall I find you when I come to town?” “Why, if you will ask any gentleman you meet whether he chance to remember Cy- daria, you will find me as soon as it is well you should.” I prayed her to tell me more, but she was resolved to tell no more. = “See, it is late. I go,” said she. Then suddenly she came near to me. “Poor Si- mon,”’ she said, softly. “Yet it is good for you, Simon. Some day you will be amused at this, Simon.” She spoke as though she were fifty years older than I. My answer lay not in words or arguments. 1 caught her In my arms and kissed her. She strug- gled, yet she laughed. It shot through my mind then that Barbara would neither have struggled nor laughed. But Cydaria laughed. Presently I let ner go, and, kneeling on my knee, kissed her hand very kumbly, as though she had been what Barbara was. If she were not—and I knew not what she was—yet should my love exalt her and make a throne whereon she might sit a queen. My new posture brought a sudden gravity to her face, and she bent over me with a smile that seemed now tender and almost sorrowful. “Poor Simon, poor Simon,” she whis- pered. “Kiss my hand now, kiss it as though I were fit for worship. It will do you no harm—and, perhaps—perhaps I shall like to remember it.” She leaned down and kissed my forehead as I knelt before her. “Poor Simon,” she whispered, as her hair brushed mine. Then her hand was grad- ually and gently withdrawn. I looked up to see her face; her lips were smiling, but ere, nara Be ~o on her — Bend ughed, an laugh ended in a lit! gasp, as though a sob fought with it. And she cried out loud, her a among the trees in 3 WHAT ROBERT BARR SAYS OF ANTHONY HOPE, Being Something Out of the Ordinary in the Way of an Interview. Written for The Evening Star by Robert Barr. I was very much perplexed when a schoolboy in endeavoring to fathom the f ‘meaning of a phrase which had something to do with a verb. The phrase was “to be, to do, or to suffer.” Grammar was a deep mystery to me in my youth, and is yet, any one may learn by a perusal of my im- mortal works. This phrase recurred to me as I sat down to write the following inter- view with Anthony Hope. Which is worse, to be interviewer, to do an interview, or to suffer an interview?” When Macbeth says, “Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble,” one feels sure that the ghost of Banquo appeared with note book and pencil in hand. Of all forms of fiction, the interview is the most brazenly mendacious. It purports to give a man’s ideas in his own words, whereas it merely gives, in the interview- er's words, the interviewer's version of what a man’s ideas should be. The public 1s entirely in error about the real purport Anthony Hope. of the interview, and when the innocent man who has been interviewed denies next day that he ever said such things, nobody believes him. When Rudyard Kipling landed in Aus- tralia a breathless young man seized upon him and said: “I know you won't be interviewed, and I don’t want to interview you, although I am sent to do so, but I have a first-rate scheme of colonial defense, which no editor in Au: tralia will print, because I am a simple newspaper man, without reputation, so I have thrown it into the form of an inter- view with you, and if you don’t mind I can thus give it in’ to the paper. “Why, certainly,” said Kipling, who is al- ways ready to help a fellow creature out of a hole. The interview was p: a. was most enthusiastically receive Australian press, as going to show whai a grasp the great novelist had on matters imperial. Thus the correct function of the interview is to spread abroad the opin- ions of the interviewer, at the expense of the person interviewe, so if any thoughts from the brain of Anthony Hope creep into this interview with him it will be because they have escaped my notice. When I was asked to interview Anthony Hope I thought it only fair to send to the novelist a brief note containing useful formation. I said that it had been settle I was to interview him; that I would call at his rooms for that purpose the follow: ing week; that there were sixteen rallw: leading oat of London, several of whic bad close connections ‘with France, and that in certain specified sections of tha country wine was furnished free at lune and dinner. By a strange coincidence, when I went up the two fights of stairs to the door of Mr. Hope's rooms, we found a paper fastened thereto with a pin, and on the paper were the words. GONE TO THE CONTINENT. Back in Ten Minut>s. A.H.H. : The editor was very much disappointed at this, for he bad come over to Europe main- ly to set us two at each other, so that we inight give expression to various learned opinions in the pages of his paper, but I pointed out to him that this absence was providential, for the pitfall of the inter- viewer is the inevitable denial which fol- lows the publication of the interview; if Mr. Anthony Hope should see fit to disown in the lumns of the papers the expres- sions I attribute to him, I can answer con- clusively that he was not there at the time he was interviewed, and consequently dvesn’t know what he is talking about. I therefore now set out to interview Anthony Hope, not knowing at the moment of writ- ing where h; is, and he not knowing where Tan. My acquaintance with Anthony Hope be- gan on a yacht off the Norway coast, and on that occasion also he wasn't there. On a steamer chair lay a book, entitled “Mr. Witt’s Widow,” which T picked up, and came interested in the lady, as one so often does on board ship. The greatest compii- ment a mar can pay an author is to buy his books, and that tribute Anthony Hope had from me as scon as I reached London. Somehow I feared “Mr. Witt's Widow" was a first book; it had all the humorous exuberance of youth in it, but I learned thet there were others, and I read them with avidit: Various mutual friends promised me an introduction to the writer of these cnarm- ing books, but the meeting never came off. Perhaps the author had an intuition that I was to interview him in his absence, and so endeavored to make that absence as permanent as possivle; anyhow, the god was never in the car when I was there to witness its descent. The man of mark re- mained invisible. From the languorous humor that pervaded his books, perhaps it might be called Lam- berous humor, quiet, quaint, non-insistant fun, together with the evident love of the country indicated in “A Change of Air,” I was led to the conclusion that Anthony Hope lived in some delightful rural vil- lage, possibly in Surrey, reveling on the royalties that poured in upon him from grateful publishers, therefore I was sur- prised when a friend, walking with me through Fountain court in the Temple, jerked his thumb over his shoulder in a casual sort of way, and said: “Those are Anthony Hope's rooms.” piLet us call on rim,” said I, stopping skort. “We don't know him,” objected the other. “What difference does that make? We represent his public; we are his customers; he is bound to be civil to us.” “I’m not so sure about that. He's a Bal- Nol man, and these Balliol chaps are prone to be high and mighty.” “In that case,” suggested I, “let us fol- lcw the example of the Oxford guide with the master of Balliol himself. I'll throw a handful of gravel at his windows, and when he appears we will bow to him. “He'll not appear; he'll merely send for the police. Much that fs interesting in life is missed in London through fear of the force, and enterprises of great pith and moment, with tthis regard, their currents turn awry, and lese the name of action. After all, the author, in sending forth his books, was asking for bread, so what right had we to throw him a handful of stones? We passed on, leaving Anthony Hope unaware of our vicinity. The world seems to become more sedate as it grows older. On that very spot Charles Lamb used to play tricks with the fountain, and no bobby molested him. ‘The genial Charles says: “What a col- legiate aspect bas that fine Elizabethan hall, where the fountain plays, which I have made to rise and fall, how many times! to the astonishment of the young urchins, my contemporaries, who, not be- ing able to guess at its recondite ma- chinery, ne ee ee to hail the wondrous work as ic.” Later this same fountain played merrily than seventy-two commands, the sixty- fourth reading, “No widow shall be allowed to dwell in the preceptories.” Furthermore another clause enjoined that “No knigat is to talk to a brother of we trol All jests and idle words are to be avoider The infraction of which rules led to ver- tain penances “in such case made and pro- vided,” as one might say, to drop into more modern Temple verbiage. Ah, Anthony, Anthony! did your con- science chide you for the ignoring of those rules governing that spot so many cen- turies ago, and was that the reason you Persisted in quitting the classic shades of the Temple for more commercial and com- monplace rooms in Buckingham street, in spite of all my bescechings to remain, for, not being allowed to have chambers in the Temple myself, I wished to possess one friend there upoa whom I might occasion- ally ceil. Well, to make a long story still more lengthy, I may add that I ultimacely visited Anthony Hope at his chambers in the Temple, going boldiy up one flight of stairs with absolutely no excuse for my intrusion, but being resolved that if, in my reception, there was any siga of that British intolerance of which I read in the American papers, but which, up to dace I have never met, I would deftly switch off from literary matters and tackle him on a legal basis, saying 1 wanted to bring an action against some one and desired ad- ca. Vice. 1 discovered later that this method of retreat would have been a delusion, for Anthony Hope was a barrister, and as such was only to be approached most re- spectfully through a solicitor. You couldn't so up, give him a dollar, end come away with a quarter's worth of advice. I knocked at the first landing, and the door apparently opened of its own accord, typical of the ease with which the en- trance to a quarrel is acconipiished. A youth seatea on a high stool turned half round as I went in. He had a quill pen in his hand, with the feathery end of whica he tickled his lips, looking, amid his sev- erely legal surroundings, as if he were enacting a character from Dickens und Going it remarkably well. “Is Mr. Anthony Hope in?” I asked. “Mr. Anthony Hope? Oh, you mean Mr. Hawkirs. Yes, sir.” iknow my statement will not be « ited in America, but the youth did not drop his “h's” in pronouncing svch of the above words as are currently held to be as pit- falls for his countrymen. He slid off the stool, rapped at a door, and presenily desired me to enter. Before doing so, I would like to few remarks abou* the doors in chambers. They are double. ake a ‘emple There is a green baize or black leather door on the outside, then an inner ordinary door of oak. Like many other things in this slowly built-up old ccuntry, these doors have a siguit! esa language of their own. When the outer door stands open, it means that the person within is disengaged; when it is closed, the ouk is sported. I found out these interest- ing particulars by ru the inside door on various occasions having been brought up in a ou country, the double event seemed to be a you, sir,” said the youth. There ran through my mind the line which Chevalier sings, “How'd you fancy X. Hawkins for your other name?” It seemed then that Anthony Hope had anoth- er name whether he fancied it or not. the purposes of this I have looking through the writings of and others, hoping to meet scription of Anthony Hope's room in the Temple, but I cannot find anything that exactly fits in. The room which Tom Pinch had to set to rights was naturally all in disorder, the books lying in heaps on the floor, while in the chambers I speak of they were all nicely arranged along the walls, in sombe: leathern bindings, look- ing very solemn, legal and uninteresting. Boswel!’s account of Dr. Johnson's room and its occupant will not do at all. “It must be confessed that his apart- ments, furniture and morning dress were sufficiently uncouth,” writes the gossiping Jimmy. brown suit of clothes lovked very ru he had on a little old shriveled unpow: wig, which was too small for his head; he a pair of unbuckled shoes by way’ of slippe I cannot find that any one visitea Lamb's quarters cribed them, but Charles himself te to Coleridge: “1 have two rooms on the third floor and five rooms above, with an inner staircase to myself and all new painted, for 230 a year. The rooms are delicious. look backward into Hare court, whe a pump always going; just now it is dry The furniture in Anthony Hope soberly accorded with the somewhat gloomy wainscoting of the apartment, above which vere the dusky rows of books. The bros table and heavy chairs fell well within the Nmits prescribed by the founder of the Temple, who said (see article 29): “If ever that furniture is given to a brother in char- ity, it is to be discolored to prevent an appearance of superiority or arrogance.” Ard I am pleased that truth enables me to add that there was nothing of superior- ity or arrogance about the man himself, any more than there was about his i ture. He rezeived me with a look of genfle surprise upon his face, which I took at the time to be in the nature of a mild inquiry regarding the cause of my visit, but which I afterward found to be his habitual ex- pression, an expression that has ad interrogating wrinkle to a brow whose th disentitles it to the same. I attribute ‘his questioning glance to Oxford. An Oxford man is never quite certain about anything. We rough-hewn uncollegiate persons are pesitive that black is black and white is white, but a Balliol graduate is not so sure; »3 an open mind and awaits definite vidence that seems never quite to reach him. The world has long been waiting for an expression of opinion from me_regarding the writing of Anthony Hope. This is the fir: opportunity I have hed of w dening myself cn that subj and I h no hesitation in saying that it is vile be- yond exprestion, To prevent error, I shc state that I am talking of his penman and not of his books. He uses sheets of blue fcolscap; besins at the top with a long line, writing each following line a little shorter than the one above it, and thus tre bettora Hine is about half the length of the one at the top. Perhaps in this lies the secret of his popularity, so I set forth his methods that any reader 1 try the experiment. I can read with 7 sonable facility the hieroglyphics on C! patra’s ncedle, which has been se’ the embankment, opposite Arthon Hope's new reems, but when I come to the more modern handwriting of Anthony Hope him- eelf, 1 am staggered. I speak feelingly, for fate once played me a scurvy trick in this regard. There was given to me the first six chapters of “Phroso,” beautifully type- written, and, verifying the adage that a certain ‘class of persons will rusn in where an angel wou! some hesitation in going forward, I plunged into the six chap- ters. Every ‘ore knows how absorbing “Phroso” is. I consider it the best story for serial purposes that ever was written. When I finished the six chapters, I was consumed with curiosity to know happened next. I rushed breathlessly to Buckingham street and up the two flights of stairs by which Anthony Hope now dis- courages men accustomed to elevators, burst in upon him, and demanded the of the novel at the muzzle of a revolver. He leisurely pulled out a drawer, and his smile was child-like and bland as he handed to me a mass of manuscript. It has not been typewritten yet.” he said, “so I am glad, for your sake, if you are interested in the story, that 1 write a clear, plain hand.” I hoped the end of every chapter would bring a partial solution of the difficulties which involved the characters; but there was ne such luck. Troubl@kept happening right along to the end of the took. I was in the condition of the man who had the tiger by the tail; I didn’t know whether to hang cn or let go; but I finally plowed through the appalling conglomeration of arbitrary signs which Anthony Hope flat- ters by calling it his handwriting. In a former interview, Anthony Hope is alleged to have said that no one ever help- ed him in his literary career, ‘This is a mistake. I have myself been of the great- est assistance to him, in bestowing upon him good advice. On several occasions when Anthony Hope has been uncertain about a course of action—in fact, this con- dition of ming is chronic with him—I have shown him clearly what he ought to do, and, thanking me, he has at once gone and done the opposite. If this is not assistance, what is? I implored him not to leave the Temple, merely because he gave up law, holding that if Charles Lamb were satis- fied with the sight of a dry pump, he ought to rest content with a view of a playing feuntain. That settled it. He moved at