Evening Star Newspaper, November 13, 1897, Page 18

Synopsis. Simon Dale, bern of respectable parents | oe in an Engiish country district shortly after the execution of King Charles I, 1s looked upon by the neighbors as destined to great things because of a wise woman's prophecy that he should “love what the king loved, know what the king hid and drink of the king's cup.” He falls in love with Barbara Quinton, daughter of the parish magnate, Lord Quinton, but encounters a mysterious London beauty, Cydaria by name, wio ts living secretly in the cottage of Lord Quin- ton's gardener, and who attracts his boyish affections. Cydaria returns to town, and presently there arrives a letter offering Simon Dale a commission in the King’s Regiment of Guards. Simon sets out for London, meeting en route one Mr. Darrell, who tells him of Barbara Quinton’s great success at the court of Charles II. He dis- covers that the mysterious Cydaria is none other than Nell Gwynn, and resolves to re- fuse the commission, which he believes came through her. The satirical remarks of my Lord Carford on this subject cause a duei between that nobleman and Simon, in which the latter is wounded in the arm. In company with Phineas Tate, a fanatic Puritan, he once more encounters Neil Gwynn, just as Tate is ranting against the Vices of the court. She reminds him of the romantic “Cydaria,” and bids him keep his commission. Half doubtfully he refuses. Lord Quinton takes Simon Dale a-waiking | in the Mall, and they meet his majesty the | king, who appears vexed at his resigning his commission. Simon once more visits Barbara Quinton, who shows signs which @ more experienced lover might have guess- ed as evidences of jealousy when “Cy- Garia’s" name is introduced. Barbara does not know who “Cydaria” really is and questions Simon. The young Duke of Monmouth, Charles Il’s natural son, being of Simon's age, takes a fancy to him, although Dale inter- rupts a flirtation which he attempts to be- gin with Barbara. Finally Monmouth ob- tains the king's leave to take Simon into his train, and bring him to Dover, where the Duchess of Orleans is expected. The events which followed are here related: Continued From Last Saturday. CHAPTER VIII Madness, Magic and Moonshine. When the curtain had fallen on the little- heeded play and the gay crowd began to disperse, I, perceiving that no more was to be seen or learned, went home to my lodg- ing alone. After our conversation Darrell had left me abruptly, and I saw him no more. But my own thoughts gave me oc- cupation enough, for even to a dull mind, and one unversed in court intrigues, it seemed plain that more hung on this ex- edition to Dover than the meeting of the king’s sister with her brother. So far all men were of the same opinion; beyond their variance began. I had not thought to trouble my head about it, but not having learned yet that a small man lives most comfortably with the great by opening his yes and ears only when bidden, and keep- ing them tight locked for the rest, I was in- spired with eagerness to know the full meaning of the scene in which I was now Of one ‘as glad—here I touched aitable to my condition nd this was that since Barbara Quinton | Was going to Dover, I was to go also. But, alas, neither here did perplexity hind. It is easy to know that you are glad to be with a lady if your very biood tel!s you, but to say why is often difficult. 1 told myself that my sole cause for pleasure lay in the services I might be able to render to my old friend’s daughter. She would Want one to run her errands and do her bidding an attentive cavalier, however These phrases ered to myself, but swelling pride re- them, and for once reason came as s ally, urging that in such company | = at Dover a girl might on, no less than compli- | ue, MY new master’s bear- | ing to her showed how true. And Carford was not, it seemed, a jealous lover. 1 was | no lover—my life was vowed to another | ppy love—but I was a gentleman, nd, sweet thought, the hour might come | ep the face which had looked so mock- jy at me tonight should turn again in appeal to the wit and arm of Simon Dale. I grew taller as I thought of that, and coming just then to my own door, rapped with my cane as loudly and defiantly as though I had been the Duke of Monmouth himself, and not a gentleman in his suite. Loud as my wrapping was, it brought no immediate answer. Again 1] knocked. Then | feet came shuffling along the passage. I had aroused my sleepy wretch; doubtless he would come groaning (for Jonah might not curse, save in the way of religion), and rubbing his eyes, to let me in. The door opened and Jonah appeared. His eyes were not dull with sleep, but seemed to blaze with some strong excitement. He had not Been to his bed, for his dress was not dis- ordered, and a hght burned bright in my parior. To crown all, from the same parlor came the sound of a psalm, most shrilly an Villainously chanted through the nose, familiar to my ears. I, unlike . vant, had not bound myself against an oath where the case called, and with & round dne that sent Jonah’s eyes im @sony up to the ceiling 1 pushed by him and ran into the parlor. A sonorous “Amen” came pat with my entrance. Phineas Tate stood before me, lean and pale, but calm and placid. “What in the devil's name brings you here?” I cried. “The service of God,” he answered sol- iy hat! Does it forbid sleep at nights ve you been sleeping, young man he asked, pertinently enough, as I must allow. “I have been paying my respects to his majesty,” said I. “Ged forgive him and you,” was the re- tort. “Perhaps, sir, perhaps not,” I replied, for I"was growing angry. I have asked your intercession no more than has the king. If Jonah brought you here, it was without my leave; I beg you to take your departure. Jonah, hold the door there for Mr. Tate.” The man raised his hand impressively. “Hear my message first,” he said. “I am sent unto you that you may turn from sin. For the Lord has appointed you to be his instrument. Even now the plot is laid, even now men conspire to bring this king- dom again into the bondage of Rome: Have you n» ears, have you no eyes, are you blind and deaf? Turn to me, and I will make you see and hear. For it is given to me to show you the way.” I was utterly weary of the fellow, and 5 in despair of getting quit of him, flung my- i to a chair. But his next words ht my attention ‘he man who lives here with you—what of him? Is he not an enemy of God?” “Mr. Darrell ts of the Romish faith,” said I, smiling in spite of myself, for a kinder soul than Durrell I had never met. Phineas came close to me, leaning over me with an admonishing forefinger and a Mysterious air. “What did he want with you?” he asked. “Yet cleave to him. Be where he is, go where he goes.” Ld “If it comforts you I am going where he Foes,” said I, yawning. “For we are both going to Dover when the king goes. “It is God's finger and God's will!’ Phineas, catching me by the shoulder. “Enough!” I shouted, leaping up. “Keep your hands off me, man, if you can’t keep your tongue. What is it to you that gO to Dover?” “Aye, what?’ came suddenly in Darrell’s voice. He stood in the doorway with a fierce and angry frown on nis face. A mo- am ready. But your hour comes also, yea, cup shall soon be full.” rrell spoke to him in low, stern tones. “It may be more than ears if you will not bridle your tongye. It’s not for you to question why ithe king comes or goes.” saw Jonah’s face pale with fright as he looked at the two men. The interest of the scene grew on me, the talk of Dover seemed to pursue me “But this young man,” ye ned utterly unmoved’ by Darrell's thrcun ais Darrell’s threat, “is not of you. He shall be snatched = the burning, and by his hand the Lord will work a great deliverance.” Darrell turned suddenly to me and said, stiffty: = “This room is yours, sir, not mine. Do you suffer the presence of this mischievous knave?”" “I suffer what I can't help,” I answered. Sion ene ask my pleasure in his oming an: ing, any mori asks Mr. Tate in ‘nis. ee “It would do you no good, sir, to have it known that he was here,” Darrell reminded me, with a significant nod of his head. Darrell had been a good friend to me and had won my regard, but from an infirmity of temper that I have touched on before, his present tone set me against him. I take reprocf badly, and age has hardly tamed me to it. “No good with whom?” I asked, smiling. “The Duke of York? My Lord “Arlington? Or do you mean the Duke of fonmouth? Is it he whom I have to please “None of them love Ranters,” answered Darrell, keeping his face stiff and inscru- table. “But one of them may prefera inte a Papist,”” laughed I. ie ene The thrust told. Darrell grew red. To myself I seemed to have hit suddenly on the key of a mystery. Was I, then, a pawn in the great game of the churches, and Darrell another, and (to speak it with all due respect) these grand dukes I:ttle bet- ter? Had Phineas Tate also his piace on the board where souls made the Stakes? In such a game none is too low for value, none too high for use. Surely, my finger was on the spring. At least, I had con- founded Darrell; his enemy, taking my help readily enough, glared ‘on him in a most un-Christian exultation, and then, turning to me, cried in a species of fierce ecstasy: ‘Think not that because you shail not serve God. fies the instrument, ‘4, it makes clean that which is foul. Verily, at His hour, God may work through a woman of sin.” And he fixed his eyes intently on me. I read a special meaning in his words, my thoughts flew readily to the Cock and Pie in Drury lane. “Yea, through a woman of sin,” he re- peated, slowly and sclemnly: then he faced round, swift as the wind, en Darrell, and, minding my friend’s sullen scowl not a whit, cried to him: ‘Repent. repent, ¥ Seance is near!” ard so at last was out cf the room before either of us could hinder him, had we wished, or could que: n him further. I heard the house door shut be- hind him, and 1 rose, looking at Darrell with an easy smile. “Madness and moonshine, good friend,” said I. “Don't let it disturb you. If Jonan admits the fellow again he shall answer for it. “Indeed, Mr. Dale, when I prayed you to share my lodging, i did not foresce the na- ture of your company.” “Fate, more than choice, makes a man’s company,” said I. “Now it’s you, now Phineas, now my lord the secretary, and now his grace the duke. Indeed, seeing how destiny—or, if you will, chance—rules, a man may well be thought a fool who makes a plan or chooses a companion. For my own part, I am fate’s child, and fate shall guide me. “He was still stiff and cold with me, but my friendly air and my evident determina- tion to have no quarrel won him to civility, if to no warmer demonstration of regard. “Fate's child?” he asked, with a little scorn, but seating himself and smoothing his brow. “You're fate’s child? Isn't that an arrogant speech, Simon?” “If it weren't true, most arrogant,” I an- swered. “Come, I'll tell you. It’s too soon for bed and too late to go abroad. Jonah, bring us some wine, and if it be good, you shall be forgiven for admitting Master Tate.” Jonah stunk off, and presently returned with a bottle, which we érank, while J, with the candor I had promised, told my friend of Betty Nasroth and her prophecy. He heard me with an attention which be- lied the contempt he asserted. I have no- ticed that men pay heed to these things, however much they Jaugh at them. At the end, growing excited, not only with the wine, but with the fumes of life which had been mounting into my young brain all the day, I leaped up, crying aloud: “And isn't it true? Shan’'t I know what he hides? Shan’t I drink of his cup? For isn't it true? Don’t I already, to my in- finite misery, love where he loves?” For the picture of Nell had come suddenly you are unworthy The work sancti- “Whit Does the King Hide?” across me in renewed strength and sweet- ness. When I had spoken I dropped again into my chair, and laid my head down on my arms. Silence followed. Darrell had no words of consolation for my wees, and left my lovelorn cry unheeded. Presently, then, for neglected sorrows do not thrive, I looked furtively at him between the ers of my hand. He sat moody, thoughtful and frowning. I raised my head and met kis eyes. He leaned across the table, saying in @ sneering tone: “A fine witch, on my life. You should know what he hides?” aye.” He sat sunk in troubled thought, but I, being all this night torn to and fro by changing and worrying moods, sprang up again and cried in boisterous scorn, “What, you believe these fables? Does God and I smiled cunningly, as though I sought to hide knowledge by a display of ignor- ance. “Nothing, nothing,” he muttered, un- ily. “The wine's got in my head.” “Yet you've drunk but two glasses; I had the aor said L “Can Ranters and witches make secrets Ste there are none?” said I, with a laugh. They can make fools think there are se- crets where there are none,” said he, rudely. : ‘And other fools ask if they’re known?” I retorted, but with a laugh, and I added, “I'm not for a quarrel, secret or no secret, so if that’s your purpose in sitting the night through, to bed with you, my friend. Whether from prudence or whether my- gccd humor rebuked his temper, he grew more gentle; he looked at me kindly enough and sighed, as he said: “I was to be your guide in London, Simon, but you take your own path.” “The path you showed me was closed in my face,” said I, “‘and I took the first that ‘es—or by another, if it had chanced to be another.” “But why take any, Simon?” he urged, persuasively. ‘Why not live in peace and leave these great folk alone?” “With all my heart,” I cried. “Is it a bargain? Whither shall we fly from the turmo!l?” “Wel” he exclaimed, with a start. “Aren’t you sick of the same disease? Isn't the same medicine best for you? Come, shall we both go tomorrow to Hatch- stead—a pretty village, Mr. Darreli—and let the great folk go alone to Dover?” “AH, SIMON, YOU TOO HAVE A TONGUE!” Ww pled and fell, losing itself in echoes ly audible, but rieh with enticing mirth. Surely she was cunningly fashioned for the undoing of men; yes, and of herseif, Poor soul. What were her coaches, and the Flemish horses, and the house called Bur- ford House in Chelsea? A wave of memory swept over me and I saw her simple—weil, then, rore simple!—though always merry, in the sweet-smelling fields at home, play- ing with my boy’s heart as with a toy that she knew little of, but yet by instinct handled deftly. It pleased her mightily, that toy, and she seemed to Wonder when she found that it felt. She did not feel; joy was hers, nothing deeper. Yet, could she not, might she not, would she not? I knew what she was; who knew what she might be? The picture of her rose again before my eyes, inviting a desperate ven- ture, spurring me on to an enterprise in which the effort seemed absurdity, and suc- cess would have been in the eyes of the world calamity. Yet an exaltation of spirit was on me, and I wove another dream that drove the first away; now I did not go to Dover to play my part in great affairs and jostle for higher place in a world where, in God’s eyes, all places are equal ard all low, but away back to the country I had loved, and not alone. She should be with me, love should dress penitence in glowing robes, and purity be decked more gloriously than all the pomps of sin. Could it be? If it could it seemed a prize for which all else might willingly be foregone —an achievement rare and great, though the page of no history recorded it. Phineas Tate had preached to her and “You know I cannot. 1 serve my Lord ngton.”” ‘And I the Duke of Monmouth.” But iy lord is the king's servant.” “And his grace the king's son.” if you're obstinate,” he wring. “As fate, as prophecy, as witch, as ran- ter. as devil, or as yourself?” I said laugh- ing; and throwing myself into a chair as he rose and moved toward the doo: “No good will come of it to you,” he said, passing mevon his way. “What loyal servant looks to make a profit of his service?” I asked. “I wish you could be warned.” “[m warned, but not turned, Darrell. Come, we part friends?” “Why, yes, we are friends,” he answered, ith a touch of hesitation. g our duty to the king?” d should come for that reserva- said he, gravely. “And saving,” sald I, “the liberties of the kingdom snd the safety of the reformed re- Hgion—if need should come for those reser- vations, Mr. Darrell,” and I laughed to see the frown gather again on his brow. But he made no reply, being unable to trust his self-control or answer my light banter in its own kind. He left me with no more than a shake of his head and a wave of his hand, and although we parted thus in am- ity, and with no feelings save those of kindness for one another, I knew that henceforth there must be a difference in our relations. The days of confidence were one. eTne recognition of my loss weighed little with me. The diffidence born of inexpe- rience and of strangeness to London and the court was wearing away; the desire for. another's arm to lean on and another's eyes to see with gave way before a young man’s pride in his own arm's strength and the keenness of his own vision. There was sport afcot—aye, for me in those days all things were sport, even the high disputes of churches or of kingdoms. We look at the world through our own glasses. Little as it recks 0° us, it is tO us material and opportunity. There in the dead of night I wove a dream, wherein the part of hero was played by Simon Dale, with kings ahd dukes to bow him on and off tie stage, and Christerdom to make an audience. These dream doings are brave things. I pity the man who performs none of them, for in them you may achieve without labor, enjoy without expense, triumph without. cruelty, aye, and sin mightily and grandly without never a reckoning for it. Yet do not be a mean villain, even in your dream- ing, for that sticks to you when you are awake. I had supposed myself to be alone out of bed and Jonah Wall to have slunk off in fear of my anger. But now my meditations were interrupted by his entrance. He crept up to me in an uneasy fashion, but seemed to take courage when I did not break into abuse, but asked him mildly why he had not sought rest end what he wanted with me. His first answer was to implore me to protect him from Mr. Darrell’s wrath: through Phineas Tate, he told me timidly, he had found grace, and he could deny him nothing, vet if 1 bade him he would not ad- mit hint again. “Let him come,” said I carelessly. ‘‘More- over, we shall not be long here. For you and I are going on a journey, Jonah.” “A journey, sir?” “Aye, I go with the Duke of Monmouth, and you go with me to Dover when the King goes.” Now, either Dover was on everybody’s brain, or was very sadly on my brain, for 1 swear even this fellow’s eye seemed to brighten as I named the place. — = sir?” “No less. You shall see all th —— gti: cet Jonah.” arash idk e flush of interest had died away; he pia Golefully tranquil and submicsive in. “Well, what do you want with me?’ I acked, for I did not wish him to suspect that I detected any change in his manner. ig, 4 lady came here today, sir, in a very fine coach with Flemish horses and asked for you. Hi you. were from home she ated me re bade me take a mes- sage for you. prayed rer to write it, but she laughed and said she spoke more easily than she wrote, and bade me say that she wished to see you.” “What manner of lady was she, Jonah?” “She sat all the while in the coach, sir, but she seemed not tall; she was very merry, sir,” and Jonah deeply; with him merriment stood high among the vices Otago. did't ee “She didn’t say for what she wanted me?” I asked as carelessly as I could, “No, sir! She said you would know the purpose, and that she would jook for you at noon om began, gcne away, embty and scorned. I could Preach, too, in different tones and with a cifferent gospel.- Yet my words should have a sweetnest nisi d not, my gospel a power that should where his repelled. For my love, shakey, not, yet shattered; wounded, not dead; inging“again to full life and force, sho ‘breathe its vital en- ergy into her soul and :mpenf of its endless abundance till Ber fart ‘was fy En- tranced by thisolaen vision; I arose and looked from dow at the dawning day, praying that @ine might be the task, the achievementp the reward. Bright dawned-that day} as I, with bright- er brightness in my h@art/-climbed the Stairs that led *to myybeddha: r. But as I reached the-dooca® i used. There came a sound from the loset beyond, where Jonah stretthed as I hoped, had forgotten the soul that he himself es than would the hell hej feared, No, he did not rest. From his closet came low, fer- vert, earnest prayers. Listening a minute, half in scorn, half im pity, and in no un- kindness, I heard him. “Praise be to God,” he safa, “who mak- eth the crooked places straight, and open- eth a path through the wilderness and set- teth the hand of his servant a sword where- with to smite the ungcdly, even in high places.” What crooked places were made straight, what path opened, what sword set in Jo. rah’s hand? Of the ungodly in high places there was no lack in the days of King Charles. But was Jonah Wall to smite them? I opened my door with a laugh. We “ere all mad that night, and my madness lasted Lill the morning. Yes, till the morn. ing grew full my second dream was with me. Weary legs, and in harmless sleep ented worse CHAPTER Ix. Of Gems.and Pebbles. How I sought her, how I found her, that fine house of hers, with the lawn round it and the river by it, the stare of her lack- eys, the pomp of her living, the great lord who was bowed out as I went in, the maid who bridled and glanced and laughed—they are all there in my memory, but blurred, confused, beyond clear recali. Yet all that she was, looked, said, aye, or left the clear- er for being unsaid, is graven on my mem- ory im lines that no years obliterate, and no change of mind makes hard to read. She wore the great diamond necklace,whose purchase was a fresh text with the serious and a new jest for the wits. On her neck it gleamed and flashed as brilliantly and variously as the dazzling turns in her talk and the unending chase of fleeting moods across her face. Yet I started from my lodging, sworn to win her, and came home sworn to have done with her. Let me tell it. I told it to myself a thousand times in the days that followed. But even now, and for all the times that the scene has played itself again before my unwilling eyes, I cam scarcely tell whence and how, at the jJast the chance came. I think that the Pomp itself, the lord and the lackeys, the fine house, and all her state struck, as it were, cold at my heart, dooming to failure the mad appeal which they could not But there was more. For al) might have been, and yet not reached or infected her soul. But when I spoke to her in words that had for me a Sweelness so potent as to win me from all hesitation, and make as nothing the whole world beside, she did Saw that she tried t she failed I had i a water it eas ght tt was deed, though it were,.yet Jt the sunshine of her tears. But & passing petula) she could not am not weep, but I must.rather smile ve asked, than lament that my aaking-earae, vain, that I must wonder at her patience in refusing kindly, ar be no more amaged that she Yet this sad wis- dom that sits ws I do not love in youth. I was but if to hold that love prevail be folly, let my bé“fools after me until turn catch up from them the ‘You would have said Icoked to see me, for she in surprise NOVEMBER- PE eee ae te ee 13, 1897-24 PAGES.” Sansa. upon her. a echoing my wo! “Then God forgive you,” said I again, and I leaned my head on my hand. “and you, good Simon, do you forgive me?” I was silent. She moved away petulantly, ing: “You're all go ready to call on God to forgive! Is fo1 God's only? Will none of you forgive for yourselves? Or are you so righteous that you can’t do what God must?” I sprang up and came to her. “Forgive!” I cried in a low voice. “Aye, Tl forgive. Don't talk of forgiveness to me. I came to love.” “To love? Now?” Her eyes grew wide in Wonder, amusement and delight. es,"" said I. ‘You love the gem; you'd love the pebble? ‘Simon, Simon, where is madame, your mother, where my good friend the vicar? Ah, where's your virtue, Simon?” “Where yours shall be,” I cried, seizing and covering her hands in mine. “Where yours, there mine, and both in love that mekes delight and virtue one.” I caught a ond to my lips and kissed it many times. “No sin comes but by desire,” said I, plead- ing, “and if the desire is no sin, there is no sin. Come with me! I will fulfill all your desire and make your sin dead. She shrank back amazed; this was sirange talk to her, yet she left her hand in mine. “Come with you? But whither, whither? We are no more in the fields at Hatch- stead.” “We could be again,” I cried, “alone in the fields at. Hatchstead.” Even now she hardly understood what I would have, or understanding, could not be- lieve that she understood rightly. “You mean—leave—ieave London and go with you? With you alone?” “Yes—alone with your husband.” She pulled her hand away with a jerk, erying, “You're mad.” “May be. Let me be mad, and be mad yourself, also, sweetheart. If both of us are mad, what hurt?” ““What—I—I—go—I leave the town—I leave you?—You’re here to seek your fortune.” “‘Mayn’t I dream that I’ve found it?” And again I caught her hand. After a moment she drew nearer to me; I felt her fingers press mine in tenderness. “Poor Simon!” said she, with a little laugh. “Indeed, he remembers Cydaria well. But Cydaria, such as she was, even Cydaria, is gone. And now I am not she.” Then she laughed again, crying, “What fol}, ‘A moment ago you didn’t call it folly.”” “Then I was doubly a fool,” she answered with the first touch of bitterness. “For fol- ly it 1s, deep and black. 1 am not—nay, was I ever—one to ramble in green fields all day and go home to a cottage.” “Never,” said I. “Nor will be, save for the love of a man you love. Save for that, what woman has been? But for that, how mrany!”" “Why, very few,” said she, with a gentle Mttle laugh. “And of that few—I am not one. Nay, nor do I—am I cruel?—nor do I love you, Simon!” ‘You swear it?” ‘But a little—as a friend—an old friend.” “And a dear one?” “One dear for a certain pleasant folly that he has.” “You'll come?” ‘No.” “Why not? But in a day neither you nor T would ask why.” “Don't ask now. There’s a regiment of reasons.” Her laugh burst out again, yet her eyes seemed tender. “Give me one.” “I have given orie. I don’t love you.” “I won't take it.” am what I am.” ‘You should be what I would make you.” “You're to liye at the court. To serve the Duke of Monmouth, is it not?” : “What do I care for that? Are there no others?” “Let go my hand—no, let it go. See, now, T'll show you. There's a ring on it.” ."” “Simon, do you guess who set it there?” “He is your king only while you make him such.” “Nay,” she cried, with sudden passion. “I am set in my course."” Then came defiance. “I wouldn't change it. Didn’t I tell you once that I might have power with the Power? What's that to you? What's it to any of us beside love?” “Oh, I don’t know anything about your love,” she cried, petulantly, “but I know what I love—the stir, and the ‘rowns of the great ladies, and the courting of great lords. Ah, but why ae I talk? Do we rea- n with a madman?” went we are touched ever so little with his disease.” She turned te me with sparkling eyes. ke very softly: EAR CEiaon you, too, have a tongue! Can you also lure women? I think you could. But keep it, Simon, keep it for your wife, There's man: maid would gladiy take the title, for you're a fine figure, and I think you know the way to a woman's. nGtanding above me (for I had sunk back in my chair)she caressed my cheek gently with her hand. I was checked, but not beaten. My madness, as she called it (as must not I also call it?), was still in me, hot and surging. Hope was yet alive, for she had shown me tenderness, and once it had seem- ed as though a passing shadow of remorse shot across her brightness. Putting out my hands, I took both of hers again, and so looked up in ker face, dumbly beseeching her; a smile qutveret on her lips as she kook her head at me, oeeMeaven keeps you for better things,” a. ane a be the judge of them myself,” I cried, and I sought to carry her hands to my ltps. “Let me go,” she said; “Simon, you must let me go. Noy, you must. So! Sit there d I'll sit o; ‘ite to you.” “phe dia aoats said, seating herself over against me, although quite close. She look- ed me in the face. Presently she gave a ittle he utwon't you leave me now?” she askeil, ith a plaintive smile. “ shook my head, but made no other an- swer. “I am sorry,” she went on, softly, “that I came to Hatchstead; I’m sorry that I brought you to London, that I met you the lane, that I brought you here today, I didn’t guess your folly. I’ve lived with players and with courtiers, and with—with one other, so I didn’t dream of such folly as yours. Yes, I'm sorry.” than any sorrow I’ve had in a low voice. On this she sat silent for a full minute, tle, but grew grave again, saying, nin why T laughed,” and sighing heavily. I watched every motion and in her, waiting for her to speak again. At last she spoke. “You won't be angry with me, Simon?” horrors?” eCrn hear ail. you say calmly,” I an- swered. = lookiz-g at me in a whimsical dis- trosn, seaming 40 -Geprecate with anf to pray my pardon, yet still to hint amuse- ment deep-hidden in her mind. Then favo plpratry ree arnt gong og pitiful pride. appeared 2 r face. z els i bie | Wit oie ase tee eee NO “SKY SCRAPERS” WANTED. Recently Adopted Building Regula- tioms in Germany. United States Consul Sawter at Glau- chau has made an interesting report to the State Department in regard to building reg- lations in Germany, which contains several things of special local interest. “Apropos of the much-discussed and widely agitated subject of tenements and high buildings in the United States,” he says, “especially in the city of New York, where many of the new office buildings are 300 feet or more in height and built on the steel skeleton plan, "veneered with masonry, and in view of the assertion that the exclusion of light and air from the narrow streets must af- fect the health of the city, a few of the recently adopted laws governing the build- ing of tenements and dwelling houses for these of modeiate means in Germany may be of opportune interest to Americans. “The goverrment of Saxony is making every endeavor to better the condition of tenements and moderate-priced dwellings in Saxony, from a sanitary point of view as well as in a social-political respect. These efforts are due to the irfcrease of population in many of the cities and their neighboring communities. In a recent de- cree the boards of public works, or “Baupo- lizeibehorden,’ have been instructed to pre- vent as much as possible the building of ordinary tenement houses, and also to take | all possible measures to provide the man of small means with good, healthy and comfortable lodgings. The ministry of the interior has therefore thought it appro- priate, after hearing the arguments of the board of health, to form a set of resolu- ticns, the most important of which will be of general interest. “The Saxon government directs that in the laying out of new strects and sites for dwelling houses builders must choose @ position where direct exposure to sun- light may be had, not only in front, but at the rear of the site as well; therefore, closed streets (streets with houses built in rows) shall be laid out from northeast to southwest or from northwest to southeast. Of course, in laying out building pigns for the arrangement of street lines, the special local conditions and hygienic demands are always first considered. Another important feature in the plans for the building, es- pecially in the erection of large dwellings, is the provision of squares in a sufficient rumber and size, as well as front gardens, with the culture of trees. Above all things, the board of public works shall prevent, under all possible circumstances, the ere: tion of new tenement houses, although they cannot in all cases be entirely excluded. For this purpose the authorities have ar- ranged certain measures for the width and depth of a dwelling house of about 15 by 13 meters (about 49 by 42 feet), which, as a rule, must not be exceeded. The regu- lation governitg the supervision of ‘sleep- ing apartments in all kinds of dwelling houses, small hotels and lodging houses, in order to guard against and prevent overcrowding and to promote sanitary con- ditions, is also important. It is required by law that a family lodging shall com- prise at least a sitting room that can be well heated, a bed room, and, when prac- ticable, 2 kitchen, as well as the necessary space for cooxing utensils, wood, etc. Sit- ting and bed rooms combined must have at the smallest calculation 30 square meters 23 square feet) of ground space, and must he provided with movable windows. The total surface of the bed room windows shall in every case and at the lowest esti- trate amount to one-twelfth of the ground surface space of the room. All windows must open into immediate air, and at least one shall open into the street or a suffi- ciently large yard or garden. “It is most Gesirable that every lodging, when the arrangement of rooms so war- rant, thould have two windows facing each other, so as to render a thorough airing of the apurtments practicable. An apartment house is to be condemned as overcrowded and unhealthy when it does not afford at least 20 cubic meters (706 cubic feet) of breathing space far every adult and at least 10 cubic meters for every child. The given capacities are the lowest estimates of space demanded by the new laws governing the building of dwell- ing house: constant inspection by agents of the im- perial board, and the law is carried out to the tetter for the protection and com- fort of the German peopl Scrapers’ Is not @ new one, for in ancient Rome it was necessary to curb the zeal of landowners and builders by decrees limiting the height of buildings on the principal streets. As the architects of those days Gealt only with solid masonry, their structures were cer- tainly lofty enough. How one of those old Romans would open his eyes if told that nineteenth century America could bargain with a great ironmaster for the skeleton of a twenty-four story edifice at so much per ton, delivered and put together on his site in any big city, the various parts Leing brought together and fitted like a child's puzzle, so that the tow- ering structure is reared with the speed of magic—in a night, as it were. Ger- many will have none of this new architec- ture, preferring the old, more substantial and solid styles. The Germans, with a de- sire to obtain the full worth of every pfen- nig expended, argue that the iron or steel in contact with mortar will inevitably be- come honeycombed with rust, and ulti- mately will be unable to sustain the weight of brick and stone placed upon it. Con- sidering, also, the danger to life and limb, the elevator accidents, etc., the conserv: tive German is not enthusiastic regarding ‘sky scrapers.’” SS No Theaters in the Country. From the New York Weekly. City Child—“Do country towns where you go have theaters?” Actress—“‘No. Country towns never have theaters. They have only opera houses, academies of music and temples of The: pis. 5 These rules are enforced by | 21st & 22d Sts., SEW YORK CITY. The Oldest, Largest da Most Reliable Human Hair Goods fures, ccnnot be equaled anywhere! The Novelty for the Season of 1807 and "98 is the MARIE ANTOINETTE COIFFURE, #0 very becoming and stylish, and with the aid of the famous patented NEWPORT COIL, any Indy, without any trouble, will accomplish @ perfect Cofffure. _ ILLUSIVE WIGS, of my make, are the Standard of perfection, as to five and saperior workmanship. Our HAIR DRESSING PARLOR 1s a per- fect Bijou! Numerous artists aud experts for hair coloring (in various shades) are constantly in at- tendauce. An exquisite assortment of HAIR ORNA- MENTS, 2 specialty. COLORED ILLUST. F. CATALOGUE FREE A. SIMONSON. 983 BRbADWay, 21ST AND 22D STs. 206 -84t TELL HIM. YOU CAN ALWAYS The Unlucky Boy Whose Mother Cuts His Mi From Tit-Bits. Ycu can always tell a boy whose mother cuts his hair by the way he stops in the street and wriggles his shoulders. When a fond mother has to cut her boy's hair she is careful to guard agal oyance and mess by laying a sheet on the carpet. It has never yet occurred to her to set him over a bare floor and pu: the sheet around his neck. Then she draws the front hair over his eyes and leaves it there, while she cuts that which is at the back. The hair which | ies over his eyes appears to be surcharged | with electric needles, and that which ts j Silently dropping down under his collar ] band appears to be on fire. She has un- consciously continued to push his head for- ward until his nose presses his breast, and is too busily engaged to notice the sniffing sound that is becoming alarmingly fre- quent. In the meantime he is seized with an ir- resistible desire to blow his nose, but rec- oliects that his handkerchief is in the other yoom. Then a fly lights on his nose, and does it so unexpectedly that he involun- tarily dodges and catches the point of the shears in his left ear. At this he com- mences to cry and wish he was a man. But his mother doesn’t notice him. She tmerely hits him on the other ear to inspire him with confidence, and goes on with the work. When she is through she holds his jacket ecllar back from his neck, and with h | mcuth blows the short bits of Mair down his back. He calls her attention to this fact, but she looks for a new place on his head and hits him there, and asks why he Gidn't use his handkerchief. then he takes his awfully disfigured head to the mirror and looks at it, and, young as he is, he | shudders as he’ thinks of what the boys in the street will say Se Paid After Fifty-Six Years. From the New York Tribune. Harvey Skidmore of South Haven, L. 1., is an old man. For fifty-six years he has had the thought of a debt hanging over him. The debt was one of $20, which he contracted with the father of J. R. and J. H. Perkins at Riverhead, who is long since dead. During all these fifty-six years Mr. Skid- more nas not felt able to pay the debt, and every year that went by rolled up the inte! est on the money. But as the years we: on the debt, although long ago outlawed for collection, weighed heavily on the hon- est cld man. Thursday he collected together the sav- ings of some years and, going to Riverhead, he offered to cancel his indebtedness by paying the $20 to the son of his old debtor. He frankly stated that he was not in a po- sition to pay the interest. Although he knew that it was beyond his means, he would doubtless have been dum- founded had he figured it up and found that at compound interest for the fift years which the debt had run it had by this time amounted to something over Se But Mr. Perkins did not ask for the in- terest. n fact, he offer of the $20. At fir to take it, but the old man Insiste: ¥ money was paid » the old man walked proudiy out of the re, filled wi the satisfaction of having at last canceled an honest debt, even though it had been long ago forgotten by others. irst he —~—2e+-—— A Rabbit With Horns, From the Kansas City Star. Stranger than monkey-faced owls or dog- faced chickens was the rabbit with two well-developed horns, whi was shot a week ago In the fields of Chase county, Kan., by Isaac A. Wright, a real estate dealer in the New York Life building. Mr. Wright could not preserve the entire body of the rabbit, so he cut off the head and tock it to Frank Dixon, the taxidermist of the Western Historical Society, to mount, and Mr. Dixon Is working on it now. Bunny was an orainary “cotton tatl, the horns, which are tnree-quarters inch long and rv of an ugh and hard like those of a goat, are less than an inch apart Just in front of the rabbit's left ear. The first horn fs close to the Jeft ear and the other is just above the ly to the left of the The horns are regular in shape and well developed. Their size and substance dis- miss the thought that they could be mere blemishes on the skin. When the remark- able specimen has been mounted Mr. Wright will preserve it as a curtosity. Mr. Dixon has stuffed and studied animals for more than a quarter of a century, but he never has heard of such a thing before, SEEING Is BELIEVING.