Evening Star Newspaper, October 23, 1897, Page 16

iv THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1897—24 PAGES. Continued From Last Saturday. CHAPTER UL The Music of the World. human of the umsteed in t creat Newton were to ta in t one pos: or a artially of hts upied by the thin habit of sayin ed his life or uld be t call him ins: ng. and m of raiment and ly the hours the rink, 7 the buying of is his And if he in I irown him he inquir himself in a de on o¢ in my « brain make back on ad with an provinciak | rom which He is the King.” the great place to which I was now s destined might impair the homely which she had instilled into m the vicar. he stroked his ne at me with an eye . being in great danger of self-exil- I took the best medicine that I inten- tation, could—although by no means. with tion—in waiting on my Lord Quinton, who was then residing at the manor. Here my swelled spirit was smartly pricked, and sank soon to its true proportions. I was no great man here, and, although my lord received me very kindly, he had less to say on the richness of my fortune than on the ,faults of my manner and the rustic air of my attire. Yet he bade me go to London, since theve a man, rubbing shoulders with all the world, learned to appraise his own ; Value, and lost the ignorant conceit of him- —— @ village greatness Is apt to vre2d. y at crestfallen, I thanked him for his ess, and made bold to ask after | Mise Barbara. ' “She is well enough,” he answered, smil- ing. ‘And she is become a great lady. The wits e epigrams on her, and the fools addre verses to her. But she’s a good girl, Simon.” I'm sure of it, my lord,” I cried. He's a bold man who would be sure of it ny one nowadays,” he said . thank God, it ix See, here spy of verses she had lately,” and he flung me the paper. I glanced over ft, and saw much zing ice,” “unmelt- i Diana” and so forth. ad stuff. my lord.” said I. “Why, 3 ntleman of Fs none we ‘pute Simon. i have the honor of waiting on 2 . my lord?” T asked. s to that, Simon, we will see when you Yes, we must see what company ee For e mple, on whom else do hink of waiting when you are set up in London Take care you write ‘Shall a smfie, and not an unkind 1 grew hot, and knew that mmered, ‘and with those not the ng. ‘hose not well, indeed,” he echoe er deepening and the smile vani: Yet th smile came again as he rose and me on the shoulder. an honest to London, learn to know bet- <e whom you know. Bear yourself -ntleman, and remember, Simon, the king may be, yet he this with much emphasis he led ntly to the door. hy did he say th ut the king?” I ponder s I walked homeward through | the although what we all, even in the country of the king, gave war- rant enough words, my lord had seemed t¢ 2k them to me with some spe- cial mear d us though they concern- most men. Yet, what, if s foolish talk, lord ud I to do with the =. OF ; for surely did, with what he ut this ti in n y by the dismissal ffices of that gr mini hed writer, the Earl of Clar- ; the further measure which atened against him. Thus ssemble on 's when thi came in and discuss the news breught from London. of government troubled m tle, but in Tu in them, wondering to see them ngs of things ference in our » midst of retired cor | them at the King and Crown Tavern, on two days after I had talked rd Quinton. I sat with a mug before me, engrossed in my own . and paying little heed to what when, to my amazement, the post- aping from his horse, came straight to me, holding out in his hand a losure of important appearance. a letter w a rare event in my rer followed, setting the cap the dy to drink my health, de- y for the letter, sa service of his majesty not chargeable. He spoke low and there was a babble about, but it seemed as though the name of the king made its way through all the hubbub to the “s cars, for he rose instantly, and step- he was fully re: mande that it f the king, ? “Why, I answered, “that this great letter comes to me on the king's ser- vice, and that I have nothing to pay for it,” and I turned it over and over in my hands. But the inscription was plain | enough. “To Master Simon Dale, Esquire, at Hatchstead-by-Hattield.” By this time half the company was arourd us, and my Lord Clarendon well nigh forgotten. Small things near are greater than great things afar, and at Hatchstead my affairs were of more mo- ment than the fall of a chancellor or the 3 choice of new ministers. A cry arose that I should open my packet and disclose what it contained. Nay id the vicar, with an air of im- ay be on a private matter that the king writes.” y would have believed that of my lord at the manor, they could not of Simon L The vicar met their laughter bravely. king and Simon are to have pri- vate matters between them one day,” he eried, shaking his fist at the mockers, him- f half in mockery. znwhile I opened my packet and read. this day the amazement its contents ored in me is fresh. For the purport was that the king, remembering my father’s services to the king's father, and forget- those done to G Cromweil, and being informed.of my own loyal disposition, courage and good parts, had been graciously pleased to name me to a commission In his majesty’s regiment of Life Guards, such commission being post- dated six months from the day of writing, in order that Mr. Dale shouid have leisure to inform himself in his duties and fit him- self for his post; to which end it was the king's further pleasure that Mr. Dale should present himself, bringing this same leer with him, without delay, at White- hall, and there be instructed in his drill and in ali other matters necessary for him to know. Thus the letter ended, with a commendation of me to the care of the Al- mighty. i sat gasping. The gossips gaped around me. The vicar seemed stunned. At last somebody grumbled: “I do not love these guards. What need of a guard has the king except in the love of his subjects?” “So his father found, did he?’ eried the all aflame in 2 moment. the Life Guards?” I murmured. “It is the first regiment of all in honor. “Aye, my lad,” said the vicar. “It would have been well enough for you to serve in the ranks of it, but to hold his majesty’s commission.” Words failed him, and he flew to the lendlord’s snuffbox, which that good man, moved by subtle sympathy, held out, pat to the occasion. Suddenly those words or my lord’s that had at the time of their utterance caught my attention so strongly flashed into my mind, seeming now to find their explana~ tion. If there were faults to be found in the king, it did not lie with his own ser- vants and officers to find it. I was now of his household; my lord must have known what was on the way to me from London when he addressed me so pointedly, and he * he laughed, “but it is by a} “I CARE NOTHING FOR THE QUARREL—” i could know only because he had himself been the mover in the matter. I sprang up and ran across to the vicar, crying: “Why, it my lord’s kindness, He has spoken for me.” “Aye, aye, it is my lord,” was grunted and nodded round the circle in the satisfac- tion of a discovery so soon made. The vicar alone dissented. He took another pinch and wagged his head petulantly. “I don’t think it’s my lord,” said he. ut why not, sir, and who else?” I cried. “I don’t know, but I do not think it is my * he persisted. Then I laughed at him, and he understood weil that I mocked his dislike of @ plain- sailing every-day account of anything to which it might be possible by hook or by crook to attach a tag of mystery. He had harped back to the prophecy, and would not have my lord come between him and his hobby. “You may laugh, Simon,” said he, grave- ly, “but it will be found to be as I say.” I paid no more heed to him, but caught up my hat from the bench, crying that I must run at once and offer thanks to my lord, for he was to set ovt for London that day, and would be gone if I did not hasten. “At least,” conceded the vicar, ‘‘you will do ne harm by telling him. He will wonder as much as we.” Laughing again, I ran off and left the company crowding to a man ‘round the stubborn vicar. It was well, indeed, that I did not linger, for having come to the manor at my best speed, I found my lord’s coach already at the door and himself in cloak and hat about to stop into it. But he waited to hear my breathless story and when I came to the pith of it snatched my letier from my hands and read it eagerly. At first I thought he was playing a part and meant cnly ta deny his kindness or delay the confession of it. His manner scon undeceived me. He was, in truth, amazed, as the vicar had predicted, but more than that, he was, if I read his face aright, sorely displeased also, for a heavy frown gathered on his brow, and he walk- ed with me in utter silence the better half of the length of the ierrace. ‘I have nothing to do with it,” he said bitterly. “I and my family have done the king and his too much service to have the giving away of favors. Kings do not love their creditors; no, nor pay them. I BEGAN he asked, stopping and lay- nis hand on my shoulder. ‘Maybe, Si- you don’t understand how power is me by in these days, nor what are the words and manner dashed my new pride, and I suppose my face grew glum, for he went cn more gently: “Nay, lad, since it comes, take it without question. Whatever the source of it, your own conduct may make it an honor.” But I could not be content with that. “The letter says,” I remarked, “that the king is mindful of my father’s services.” “I had thought that the age of miracles was past,” smiled my lord. “Perhaps it is not, Simon." “Then if it be not for my father’s sake nor for yours, my lord, I am at a loss, and I stuffed the letter into my pocket very peevishly. I must be cn my way,” said my lord, turning toward the coach. “Let me hear from you when you come, Simon, and I suppose you will come soon now. You will find me at my house¥in Southampton square, and my lady wili be glad of your company.” I thanked him for his civility, but my face still clouded. He had seemed to suspect and hint at some taint in the foun- tain of honor that had so unexpectedly flowed forth. “I can’t tell what to make of it," I cried. He stopped again as he was about to set his foot on the step of his coach, and turned, facing me squarely. “There's no other friend at all in Lon- don, Simon?” he asked. Again I grew red as he stood watching me. “Is there not one other?” I collected myself as well as I could, and answered: “One that would give me a commission in the Life Guards, my lord?” And I laugh- ed in scorn. My lord shrugged his shoulders and mounted into the coach. I closed the door behind him, and stood waiting his reply. He leaned forward and spoke across me to the lackey behind, saying, “Go on, go What do you mean, my lord?” I cried. He smiled but did not speak. The coach began to move. I had to walk to keep my Soon I should have to run. fy lord,” I cried, “how coud she—” My lord took out his snuff box and open- ed it. “Nay, I cannot tell how,” said he, as he carried his thumb to his nose. “My lord,” I cried, running now, “do you know who Cydaria is?” My lord iooked at me as I ran panting. Scon I should have to give in, for the hcrses made merry play down the avenue. He seemed to wait for the iast moment of my endurance before he answered. Then waving his hand at the window, he sald: “All London knows.” And with that he shut the window, and I fell back breath- less, amazed, and miserably chagrined. For he had told me nothing of all that I desired to know, and what he had told me dic. no more than inflame my curiosity raost unbearably. Yet, if it were true, this mys- terious lady, known to all London, had re- membered Simon Dale! A man of seventy would have been moved by such a thing; what wonder that a boy of twenty-two should run half mad with it? Yet, strange to say, it seemed to the vicar’s mind no more unlikely and infinitely more pleasant that the king's favor should be bound up with the tady we nad called Cydaria than that it snould be the plain fruit of my lord’s friendly offices. Presently his talk infected me with something of the same spirit, and we fell to speculating on the identity of this lady, supposing in our innocence that she must be of very exalted rank and noble station if indeed ail) London knew her and she had a voice in the ap- pointment of gentlemen to bear his majes- ty’s commission.- It was but a step further to discern for me a most notable career, wherein the prophecy of Betty Naeroth should find fulfillment and prove the link that bound together a chai of strange for- tune and high achievement. Thus our evening wore away and with it my vexa- tion. Now I was all eager to be gone, to set my hand to my work, to try Fate's promises, and to learn that piece of knowl- edge which all London had, the true name of her whom we called Cydaria. “Still,” said the vicar, falling into a sud- den pensiveness as I rose to take my leave, “there are things above fortune’s favor, or a king’s, or a great lady's. To those cling, Simon, for your namc’s sake and for my credit, who taught you. “True, sir,” said I in perfunctory ac- knowledgment, but with errant thoughts. “I trust, sir, that I shail ciways bear my- self as becomes a gentlem.n.”” “And a Christian,” he addcd mildly. “Aye, sir, and a Christian,” I agreed readily enough. “Go your way,” he said with a little smile. ‘I preach to ears that are full now of other and louder sounds, of strains mcre attractive and more alluring melodies. Therefore now you cannot listen; nay, I knew that, if you coukl, you would. Yet it may. be thatesome day—if it he God's will, soon—the strings that I feebly strike may sound loud and clear, so that you must hear, however sweetly that other music charms your senses, and if you hear, Simon, heed; if you hear, heed.” ears were indeed filled with that strange and enchanting music. 1 R IV. CyMarid Revealed. There mounted-on the coach at Hertford (for at last I am fairly on my way and may boast that I Have tnade short work of my ‘Tarewells) a gentleman, apparently about thirty years of age, tall, well-proportioned and with a tHin fate, clean-cut and high- featured. He ‘was ‘attended by a servant whom he called Roberts, a stout, ruddy fellow, who was very jovial with every postboy and ‘ostler‘on the road. The gen- tleman, being’placed next to me by the chance of our’billets, lost no time in open- ing the conversation, a step which my rus- tic backwarduess would long have delayed. He invited my confidence by a free dis- posal of his own, informing me that he was attached to the household of Lord Ar- lington and was returning to London on his lordship’s summons. For since nis patru: had been called to the place of secretary of state, he, My. Christopher Darrell (such was his name), was likely to be employed by him in matters of trust, and thus fill a position which I must perceive to be of some importance. All this was poured ferth with wonderful candor and geniality, and I, in respon: cpened to him my fortunes and prospects, keeping back nothing save the mention of Cydaria. Mr. Darrell was, or affected to be, astonished to learn that 1 was a stran- ger to London—my air smacked of the Mall and of no other spot in the world, he swore, most politely—but made haste to offer me his services, proposing that, since Lord Arlington did not look for him that night, and he had abandoned his former lodging, we should lodge together at an inn he named in Covent Garden, when he could introduce me to some pleasant com- pany. I accepted iis offer most eagerly. ‘Then he fell to talking of the court, of the households of the king and the duke, of madame the Duchess of Orleans, who was soon to come to England, they said, on what business he did not know. Next he spoke, although now with caution, of per- sons no less well known, but of less high reputation, referring lightly to Lady Cas- tlemaine and Elearor Gwyn and others, while I listened, half scandalized, halt pleased. But I called him back by asking whether he were acquainted with’ one of the duchess’ ladies named Mistress Barbara Quinten. - “Surely,” he said. ‘There is no fairer lady at court, and very few so honest.” I hurried to let him know that Mistress Barbara and I were old friends. He laugh- ed as he answered: “If you'd be more you must lose no time. It is impossible that she should refuse many more suitors, and a nobleman of great estaie is now sighing for her sce loudly as to be audible from Whitehall to ‘Temple Bar.” 3 I heard the news with interest, with pride and with a touch of jealousy; but at this time my own fortunes so engr me that soon I harked back to them, taking my courage in both hands, was about to ask my companion if he had ced ever to hear of Cydaria, when he gave a new turn to the talk by ask relessly: ‘You are a churchman, sir, I suppose “Why, yes," I answered with Sa smile and perhaps a bit of a stare. “What did you conceive me to be, sir—a Ranter or a Papist?” “Pardon, pardon, if you find offense in my question,” he ~ answered, laughing. “There are many men who are one or the other, you know.” “The country has ”’ said I sturdily. "he said im-a dreamy way, “and maybe will learn it again.” And without more he fell to. deseribing the famous regi- ment to which 1 wé® to belong, adding at the end: 1 tT: “And if you like “a brawl, the ’prentices in the city will alwéys find one for a gen- learnt that to its tleman of the» King’s Guards. Take a companion or two with you when you walk east of Temple:Bar.i By the , sir, if the question may be pardoned, how came you by your commission? For we know that merit, standing alone, stands generally naked also.” (2 I was much inclined to tell him all the story, but a #hamefacedness came over me. I did not ‘Know’ then how many owed all their advancement to a woman's in fluence, and my manly pride’ disdained tc own the oblig#tion.* I put him off by a story of a friénd who wished to remain unnamed, and “after the feint of some in- Gifferent talk, beized the chance of a short silence to ask of hini my great question. “Pray, sir, have'you' ever heard of ‘a lady. who gces sometimes by the name of Cy- daria?” said I. I fear my cheek flushed a little, do what I could to check such an exhibition of rawness. “Cydaria? Where have I heard that name? No, I know’ nobody—and yet—” He paused. Then, clapping his hand on his thigh, cried, “By my faith, yes. I was sure I had heard it. It is a name from a play, from—from the ‘Indian Emperor.’ L tkink your lady must have been masquer- ading.” “I thought as much,” I nodded, coneeal- ing my disappointment. He looked at me a moment with some curiosity, but did not press me further, and since we had begun to draw near London, I soon had my mind too full to allow me to think even of Cydarla. There is small profit in describing what every man can re- member for himself—his first sight of the greatest city In the world, with its endless houses and swarming people. It made me still ard silent, a8 we Clattered along, and I forgot my companion until I chanced to look toward him, and found an amused glance fixed on my face. But as we reach- ed the city he began to point out where the fire had been, and how the task of rebuild- ing progressed. Again wonder and antici- pation grew on me. “Yes,” said he, “it’s a fine treasure house for a man that can get the key to it.” Yet, amazed as 1 was, I would not have supposed that I was altogether an unlicked cub, My stay in Norwich, if it had not made me a Londoner, had rubbed off some of the plow mud from me, and.I believe that my new friend was not speaking whol- ly in idle compliment when he assured me that I should hold my own very well. The first lesson I learned was not to show any wonder that I might feel, but to receive all that chanced as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, for this, beyond all, is the hallmark of your quality. Indeed, it was well that I was so far fit to show my face, since I was to be plunged into the midst of the stream with a sudden- ness which startled, although it could not displease me. For the first beginning I was indebted to Mr. Darrel for what followed to myself alone, and a temper that has never been of the most patient. 4 We had reached our inn and refreshed ourselves, and I was standing looking out on the evening and wondering at what time it was proper for me to seek my bed, when my friend entered with an eager air and advanced toward me, crying: “Dear sir, I hope your wardrobe is in order, for I am resolved to redeem my word forthwith, and tonight to carry you with me to an entertainment for which I have received an invitation. I am most anxious for you to accompany me, as we shall meet many whom you should know.” I was, of course, full of excuse, but he would admit of one only—and that one I could not or would not make. For I had provided myself, with, a neat and proper suit, of which i was very far from ashamed, and which, whgn.agsumed by me and set off with a new,cloak to match it, was de- clared by Mr., ankell .to be most apt for the occasion. “You lack nothing*but a handsome cane,” said he, Sandpghe! si can myself provide. Come, let as ogi cligirs and be gone, for it grows late piaed 4 Our host that evening was Mr. Jermyn, a gentleman in.gregt repute at court, and he entertained .s;tgost handsomely at the New Spring Getter according to me a wel- come of especial coyrtesy, that I might be at my ease apd 1 no stranger among the company. He,blaced me on his left hand, Darrell being,on my other side, while opposite to me sat my lord the Earl of Car- ford, a fine-looking man of thirty or a year or two above. ,,Am@ng the guests Mr. Dar- rell indicated ;geveral whose names were known to me, sug as the witty Lord Rochester and the French ambassador, M. de Cominges, a very. stately gentleman. These, however, being at the other end of the table, I made, no acquaintance with them, and contented myself with listening to the conversation of my neighbors, put- ting in a word wherd I seemed able with propriety, and without displaying an igno- France of which I was very sensible. well till we had finished eating and sat ping our wine. ‘Then tie ‘Carter, being a what he had freedom, so that it seemed evident that he smarted under some recent grievance. The raillery of our host, not too nice or deli- cate, soon spurred him to a discovery of his complaint. He asked nothing better than to be urged for a disclosure. “Neither “rank nor friendship nor serv- ice,” he said, smiting the table, “are enough to gain the smallest favor from the king. All goes to the women; they have but to ask to have. I prayed the king to give me for a cousin of mine a place in the Life Guards that was to be vacant, and he—by heaven, he promised! Then ‘comes Nell, and Nell wants it for a friend, and Nell has it for a friend, and I go empty!” I had started when he spoke of the Life Guards, and sat now in a state of great disturbance. Darrell, also, as I perceived, was very uneasy and made a hasty effort to alter the course of the conversation, but Mr. Jermyn would not have it. “Who is the happy—the new happy man, that is, Mistress Nell’s friend?” he asked, smiling. “Some clod from the country,” returned the earl; “his name, they say, is Dale.” I felt my heart beating, but’I trust that I looked cogl enough as I leaned across and said: “Your lordship is misinformed. I have .the best of reasons for saying so. “The reasons may be good, sir,” he re- torted, with a stare, “but they are not evi- dent.” “I am myself just named to a commis- sion in the King’s Life Guards, and my name is Dale,” said I, restraining myself to a show of composure, for I felt Darrell’s hand on my arm. “By my faith, then, you're the happy man,” sneered Carford. “I congratulate you on your—” “Stay, stay, myn. “On your—godmother,” said Carford. “You're misinformed, my lord,” I re- peated, fiercely, although by now 4 great fear had come upon me. I knew whom they meant by “Nell.” no BY Goa, sir, I'm not misinformed,” said 2. : “By God, my lord,” said I—though I had not been went to swear—“By God, my lord,’ you are.”* Our voices had risen in anger; a silence fell on the party, all turning from their talk to listen to us. Carford’s face went red when I gave him the lie so directly, and the more fiercely because, to my shame and wonder, I had begun to suspect that what he said was no lie. But I followed up the attack briskly. “Therefore, my lord,” I said, “I will beg of yon to confess your error and withdraw what you have said.” He burst into a laugh. “If I weren't ashamed to take a favor from such a hand I wouldn't be ashamed to own it,” said he. I rose from my seat and bowed to him gravely. All understood my meaning, but he, chooring to treat me with insolence, did not rise nor return my salute, but sat Carford,” interposed Mr. Jer- where he was, smiling scornfully. “You don’t understand me, it seems, my lord,” said I. Maybe this will quicken your wits,” and I flung the napkin, ich had been brought to me after meat, lightly in bis face. He sprang up quickly enough then, and so did all the company. Darrell caught me by the arm and held me fast. Jermyn was by Carford’s side. I hardly knew what passed, being much upset by the sudden quarrel, and yet more by the idea that Carford’s words had put in my head. I saw Jermyn come forward, and Darrell, loosing my arms, went and spoke to him. Lord Carford resumed his seat; I leaned against the back of my chair and waited. Darrell was not long in returning to me. “You'd best he said in a low voice. “I'll arrange everything. You must meet me tomorrow morning.” I nodded my head. I had grown cool and collected now. Bowing slightly to Carford and low to my host and the com- pany I turned to the door. As I pi through it I heard the talk break out a: behind me. I got into my chair that was waiting and w carried back to my inn in a half-dazed state. I gave little thought to the quarrel or to the meeting that awaited me. My mind was engre with the revelation to which I had listened. I dcubted it still; nay, I would not believe it. Yet, whence came the story unless it were_true? And it seemed to fit most aptly and most lamentably with what had befallen me, and to throw light on what had been a puzzle. It was hard on four y since I parted from Cydaria; yet, that night I felt that, if the thing were true, I should receive Carford’s point in my heart without a pang. Being, as it may be supposed, little in- clined for sleep, I turned into the public room of the inn and called for @ bottle of wine. The room was empty save for a lanky fellow, very plainly dressed, who Sat at a table reading a book. He was drinking nothing, and when—my wine hay- ing been brought—I called in courtesy for a second glass and invited him to join me, he shook his head souriy. Yet presently he closed his book, which I now perceived to be a Bible, and fixed his earnest gaze on me. He was a s ze-looking fellow. His face was very thin and long, and his bair (for he wore his own and no wig) hung straight from the crown of his head In stiff wisps. I set him down as a Ran- ter, and was in no way surprised when he began to inveigh against the evils of the times, and to propt the judgment of God on the evils of the city. “Pestilence hath come and fire hath come,” he cried. “Yet wickedness is not put away, and lewdness vaunteth herself, and the long-suffering of God is abused.” Ail this seemed to me very tedious. 1 sipped my wine and made no answ I had enough to think of, and was content to let the sins of the city alone. “The foul superstition of papacy raises its head again,” he went on, “and godly men are persecuted.” “Those same godly men,” said I, “have had their turn before now, sir. To many it seems as if they were only receiving what they gave.” For the fellow had roused me to some little temper by his wearisome cursing. “But the time of the Lord is at hand,’ he pursued, “and all men: shall see the werking of His wrath. Aye, it shall be seen even in palaces.” “It I were you, sir,” said I, dryly, “1 would not talk thus before strangers. There might be danger in it.” He scanned my face closely for a few moments. Then, leaning across toward me, he said earnestly: “You are young, and you look honest. Be warned in time; fight on the Lord’s side, and not among his enemies. Verily- the time cometh.” I had met many of these mad fellows, for the country was full of them, some being disbanded soldiers of the common- wealth, some ministers who had lost their benefices; but this fellow seemed more crazy than any I had seen, though, in- deed, I must confess there was a full meas- ure of truth, if not of charity, in the de- scription of the king’s court, on which he presently launched himself. with great vigor of declamation and an intense, al- though ridiculous, exhibition of piety. “You may be right, sir—” ‘My name is Phineas Tate.” “You may be very right, friend Phineas,” said I,-yawning, “but I can’t alter all this. Go and preach to the king.” “The king shall be preached to in words that he must hear,” he retorted with a frown, “but the time is not yet.” “The time now is to seek our beds,” said I, smiling. “Do you iodge here? “For this night I lie here. Tomorrow I preach to this city.” “then I fear you are likely to Me in a less comfortable place tomorrow.” And Lidding him gooa night I turned to go. But he sprang after me, crying, “Remem- ber, the time is short,” and I doubt whether I should have got rid of him had rot Darrell at that moment entered the room. To my surprise, the two seemed to krow one another, for Darrell broke into a scornful laugt, exclaiming: “Again, Master Taie! What, hayen’t left this accursed city to its fate yet?” “It awaits its fate,” answered the Ranter sternly, “even as those of your supersti- tion wait theirs.” “My superstition must look out for it- self,” said Darrell, with a shrug, and see- ing that I was puzzled, he added: “Mr. Tate is not pleased with me because I am of the old religion.” “Indeed?” I cried. “I didn’t know you were of a—of the old church,” for I re- membered with confusion a careless re- mark that I had let fall as we journeyed together. “Yes,” said he simply. “Yes,” cried Tate. “You—and your mas- ter also, is he not?” Darrell’s face grew stern and cold. “I would have you careful, sir, when you touch on my Lord Arlington's name,” he said. “You know wel! that he is not of the Roman faith, but is a convinced ad- herent of the church of this country.” “Is he so?” asked Tate, with an undis- guised sneer. “Come, enough,” cried Darrell, in sudden enger. “I have much to say to my friend, and shall be glad to be left alone with him.’ ” Tate made ro objection to leaving us, | on and, gathering up his: Bible, went out scowling. ow “A pestilent fellow,” said Darrell. “He'y | im the read “just so” to children. Contai serial, of acapital historical seri Riley (a delightful poem, * Grand B wrote his first “Jungle Stories” for St. This year he will contribute to St. Nicholas a new series of fantastic stories about animals in an the “Just-So Stories” he calls them because they must be the Christmas number. The November St. Nicholas, now * THE NOVEMBER “ST. NICHOLAS” the first instalment of Frank R. Stockton’s new ‘he Buccaneers of Our Coast, Pirate” story for boys a thoroughly and girls, first chapters ghe Black Prince,” by W. 0. Stoddard, and contributions from James Whitcom ster Hop-Toad ™), George Kennan, Ruth McEnery Stuart, and others. New subscriptions should begin with November. $3.00 year; 25 cents All dealers or the publishers, The Century Co., Union Square, The Century Co. publish also Rudyard Kipling’s “Captains Courageous,” the novel of the now selling everywhere. Illustrated, $1.50, Also Kipling’s famous “Jungle Books” (two), $1.50 each. BPOBOSESSCTOSGS Nicholas Magazine, entirely new vein,— The first one will ay im ready everywhere, begins the new vol- ume. If your young folks are not taking St. Nicholas buy this number and see what it is. number. ww York, find himself laid by the heels before long. Well, T have settled your affair with my Lord Carford. But my affair with Carford was not what I wanted to hear about. I came to him as he sat down at the table and, laying my hand on his shoulder, asked simply: Is it true?” ° He looked up at me and answered gently “It is true. I guessed it so soon as you spoke of Cydaria. For Cydaria was part in which she first gai : of the town, and that, tak scription of her, gave me doubt. as I feared, or, at least, that the thing could be hidden. It seems, though, that the saucy wench has made no s of it. Thus you are landed in this quarrel, and with a good swordsman.” I care nothing for the quarrel— 4 n. with great kindness no room for Yet I hoped that tt might not be Nay, but it is worse than you think. For Lord Carford is the gentl spoke when I told you that } ton had a noble suitor. And he is high up in her favor, and higher yet in her father A quarrel with him and on such a ¢: will do you no good in Lord Quinton eyes. Indeed, it seemed as though all the furies had combined to vex me. Yet still my de- sire was to learn of Cydaria, for even now 1 could hardly believe what Darrell told me. Sitting down by him I listened while he re- lated to me what he knew of her: it was little more than the mentioning of her true name told me—a name, familiar, alas, through all the country, sung in ballad: bandied to and fro in talk, dragged even into high disputes. that touched the tion's fortunes; for, in these s' when the world comedy, great co: Quin- seemed a tries, aye, ‘holy churches, fought behind ‘the mask of an and actres: champion. I hope, indeed, that the sanctified the means; they had great need of that final justitication. Castlemaine and Nell Gwynne—had we not all read and go! siped of them? Our own vicar had spok: to me of Nell and would not speak too harshly, for Nell was Protestant. Yes, Nell, so please you, was Protestant. And other grave divines forgave her half her sins because she flouted most openly and with pert wit the other lady who was sus- pected of an inclination toward Rome and an intention to charm the king into the true church’s bosom? I also could have forgiven her much; for, saving my good Darrell’s presence, I hated a Papist worse than any man, saving a Ranter. Yes, 1 would have forgiven her all, and applaud- ed her pretty face and laughed at her pretty ways. I had looked to do as much when I came to town, being, 1 must con- fess, as little straight-laced as most young But I had not known that the thing was to touch me close. Could I forgive her my angry humiliation and my sore heart, bruised love and burning ridicule? 1 could forgive her for being all she now was. How could I forgive her for having been once my Cydaria? “Well, you must fight,” said Darrell, “al- though it is not a good quarrel,” and he shook my hand very kindly, with a sigh of friendship. “Yes, I must fight,” said I, “and after that—if there be an after—I’ must go to Whitehall.” “To take up your commission?” he asked. “To lay it down, Mr. Darrell,” said 1, with a touch of haughtiness. “You don’t think that I could bear it, since it comes from such a source?” | cult with Christianity. face or chose a fair lady for their | end | He pressed my hand, saying with a smile that si med tender: “You're from the country. Not one in ten would quarrel with that her “Yes, I'm from the country was in the country that I knew Cydaria. (To be continued). RE TET New Orleans and Voodoo, From Lippincott’, An oath to the sea serpent is part of the Vccdoo initiation. A hideous black mass is Sometimes celebrated, an inconsistent di sire existing to incorporate this infernal Lighted candles are placed on an altar and invocations satanic agencies to compass evil ends, ruin instead of the salvation of some py son. No respectable tradesman will keep j these black candle: A negro customer who was looking at the supply of candles at one of the highly re utable stores near the cathedral rejected st shown him, made of a yell atory the man- ner, kaculy | Of the man I'm working on.” Another asked for thony an ima “without the baby.” mted with the and is believed to brin: to the invoker. The storekee: suspecting that his pres | bring luck to one of th plied in ker most disapproving ai “Do you know who that baby is trying to get rid of? We have no such im- | ages of St. Anthorty.” | “Well, 1 want to know which is the saint that works harm to a person, tomer persisted, to be informed very de: edly that there is no such saint in the endar. A light colored woman once came into | this same store, and with an eager maligni- ty in her eyes inquired: “What is the saint that will bring back your fover? A woman stole my husband, and I worked my way here in a boat from St. Louls. I heard that you could get your revenge w Orleans.” Night policemen find bundles of herbs and curiously assorted rubbish on doorstep: cloves, rice, red beans, and green powders, birds’ claws and knotted strings of linen get into mattresses and pillowcases so mys- teriously as to defy detection, all for the | working of wicked spells. A gentleman told me that early one morning he saw in the center of Congo Square a dead black chick- en laid out in state on a plate and sur- rounded by lighted candles. oo Home-Made Center Piece for Flowers, From the London Figaro. A pretty yet inexpensive little centerpiece for the dinner table may bé made as fol- lows: Get a nine-inch square of quarter- inch wood. Cover this with moss-green velvet or plush, nailing it on the under side with tiny upholsterers’ tacks, then pasting thick white paper to cover. Next, get seven empty ground spice tins, soak off the paper and paint them with pale blue enamel, giving two coats, and rubbing down with sandpaper in between. When these are perfectly dry glue them on to the board, piling the two center ones and arranging the others round. Tie on rib- bons with dainty bows in front of each tin and festoon between, and in each of the tins, which are water-tight, arrange flowers and ferns. int is fant Jesus in good luck THE LIGHT SIDE OF NATURE. Old Man—“Ah! it ‘ud be very hard, sir, to pass a law to shut up th’ public ‘ouses wanted on Saturday night?” ey wi keowed there was any beer