Evening Star Newspaper, November 20, 1897, Page 18

Synopsis. mon Dele, born of gentle blood in an English country district shortly after the execution of Charles I, is locked upon as tined to greatness because a wise wo- 2 has provhesied that he shall “love at the King loves, know what the king hides, and drink of the king’s cup.” Fall- ing in leve with Harbara, daughter of the parish mazistr Lord Quinten, his young affections are liverted by the appearance of % mysterions London beauty, named Cy- a who secretly sojourns at Hatchstead. returns to London, whence there ion in the King’s . discovers that to resign his commis- procured it. Simon who appears vexed at once mere “encounters arbara is jealous of » identity she does not know. she It, nd favorite of the young hed to his | message from Mistress Gwynn oid love for her. He has an in- | h her, which is interrupted 1 xpected arrival of the king. He ¢ covers the tr te of affairs and formal- ly renources his love for Cydari Coptina-d From Lust Saturday. CHAPTER IX—Continued. I sat where I was, hearing but the echo of her laugh, unable to think, save of the truth that was driven so cruelly into my nd. The first realizing of things that cannot be undone brings to a young man a fierce impotent resentment. That in my heart. and with it a sudden revulsion | from what I had desired, as intemperate as the desire, as cruel it may be, as the thing which gave it birth. Nell's laughter died away and she was silent. Yet pres- ently I felt a hand rest on my hands as thouxh seeking to convey sympathy in a srief but half understood. I shrank away, moving my hands until hers no longer touched them. There are little acts, small matters often, on which remorse attends while life lasts. Even now my heart is sore that I shrank away from her. She was different now in nothing from what I had known her, but I, who had desired passion- ately, now shunned her. The thing had come home to me, plain, close in an odious intimacy. Yet I wish I had not shrunk away. Before I could think I had done it, and I found no words; better, perhaps, that I attempted non: I looked up. hand before her. smile on her lips. “Does it burn, does it prick, does it soil, €mmon?" she asked. “See, touch it, touch is as it was, isn't it?" She put it © by my hand, waiting for me to take 1 did not take it. “As it was when ed it,” said she, but still I did not he was holding out the There was a puzzled to my feet slowly and heavily, like a tired man whose legs are reluctant to resume their load. She stood quite still, re- garding me now with alarmed and wonder- “It's nothing,” I mmered. “Indeed, it’s nothirg; only I hadn't thought of it.” Scarcely knowing what I did, I began to move toward the door. An unreasoned in- stinet impelled me to get away from her. Yet my gaze was drawn to her face. I saw her lips pouting and her cheeks flushed, the brightness of ner eyes grew clouded. She loved me enough to be hurt by me, -f no more. A pity seized me. Turning, I fell on my knee, and, seizing the hand whose touch I had refused, 1 kissed it. h, yea kiss my hand now,” she cried. breaking into smiles again. “I ki Cydaria’s hand,” said I. “For, in truth, I am sorry for my Cyd: “She was no other than I am,” she whis- pered, and now, with a of shame, w that I felt shame for her. what it hurts us, but wi we -" said I. “Good-bye, Cydaria,” and again I kissed her hard. She drew it away from me and tossed her head, crying petu- ant! “I wish I hadn't told you “In God's nam and drew her gaz> on me again I moved on my way, the only couid tread. But darted after me an i her kand on I looked at her questionin You'll come again, Simon, when?’ The smile would not be denied, though it cam timidly, afraid for its welcome and li trustful ef its right. “When you're better, i i h all my heart I longed—to | How could the thing be + 4s to me? She could not un- hy If was aghast; extravagant spair, all in the style of a vanquished rival, would have been easy for hér to meet, to ridicule. to comfort. I knew all this, bui I covtd not find the means to effect it or to er my own distre “You'll come again, then?’ she insist, ingly “said I. bluntly and cruelly, with ng brutality. ag: 5 n took her, turned on me, denouncing me terms which she took no care io for a prudish virtue which for good or evil was not mine, and for a nar- of which my I stood defenseless in the ying at the end no more than, “I think thus of you. “Yet y at me as though you thought b Yet her manner softened, | cross to me, seeming now | ne might fall to weepin; But at the the door ope d. and the sauc hered me in ente Nell, and turning to He'd best not find k no better than to be gone,” . 1 know,” cried. aid I. We're not | coming intesrupts | Get you gone, Her anger seemed | erving girl stared ed out. Yet 's coming she s in the doorway ed through; he speech, and now he n of whose society 1? king arched ell be that he had had and that he was not fe on me again, and said nothing, merely it in question. said the king. out presumption, “But, what a r of us, the king and and answered cooliy: = all sufficient,” fore my ved a like honor. bowed the time, then, for I've said she. “But, as . sir, I was urging him to go." my account, I pray,” said the on not easy here. yed his time ad a matter of business together, He came to ask something of me, but ters did not prove to be as he thought.” eed; you must tell me more, or should have told me le I'm of a mighty curious disposition. Won't Mr. Dale sit?” And the king seated himself. T will bez your majesty’s permiesion to depart,” said I. “AH requests here, sir, He with this lady to grant or refuse. In this house [ am a servant—nay, a slavi Nell rose, and coming to the side of the King’s chair, stood there. ‘Had things been other than they are, Mr. Dale wor have asked me to be his wife,” said she. A silerce followed. Then the king re- Marked: “Had things been other than they are, Mr. Dale would have done well.” “And had they been other than they are, =” BY ANTHONY HOpE | strange how hard. } ond, ‘toward the housetops. I might well have answered yes,” said Nell. “Why, yes, very well,” said the king, “for Mr. Dale is, I'm very sure, a gentle- man of spirit and honor,although he seems, if I may say so, just now rather taciturn. “But as matters are, Mr. Dale would have no more of me.” “It’s not for me,” said the king, “to quar- rel with h’s resolve, although I'm free to marvel at it “And asks no more of me than leave to depart. “Do you find it hard, madam, to grant him that much?" She looked in the king’s face and laughed in amusement, but whether at him or me or | herself, I cannot tell. “Why, yes, mighty hard,” said she. “It's “By my faith,” said the king. “I begin to be glad that Mr. Dale asked no more. For if it be hard to grant him this little thing, it might have been easy to grant him more. Come, is it granted to him?” ‘Let him ask for it again,” said she, leaving the king, she came and sti fore me, raising her eyes to m'ne. you leave me, Simon?” she cried. “Yes, L would leave you, madam,” said 1.” “To zo whither?” I don't know. t the question isn't hard,” interp. ing. “And the answer is—elsewhere. where!” cried Nell. “Put what does that mean, zi ‘Nay, I den’ know her name,” said the king. “Nor, maybe, does Mr. Dale yet. But he'll learn, and so, I hope, shall I, it 1 can be of service to him.” “Um in no baste to learn it,” cried Nell. “Why, no,” laughed the king. She turned to me again. holding out her hand, as though she challenged me to re- fuse it. “Good-bye, Simon,” said she, and she broke into a strange little laugh that seem- j r THE EVENING. SEAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1897-24 PAGES. hamlets on the road a-gossiping by accom- plishing the journey from London to Can- terbury in his coach and six between sun- rise and sunset of a single day. To this end it was needful that the coach should be light. Lord Carford, now his grace’s insep- arable companion, alone sat with him, while the rest of us rode on horseback, and the post supplied us with relays where we were in want of them. Taus we went down gallantly and in very high style, with his grace much delighted at béing teld that never had king or subject made such pace in his traveling since the mem= ory of man_ began. Here was reward enough for all the jolting, the flogging of horses and the pain of yokels pressed un- willingly into pushing the coach with their shoulders through miry places. As I rode I had many things to think of. My woe I held at arm's length. Of what remained—the intimacy between his grace and Lord Carford, who were there in the coach together—occupied my mind most constantly. For by now I had moved about in the world a little, and had learned that many counted Carford no better than a secret papist; that he was held in private favor, but not honored in public. by the Duke of York, and that communications Passed freely between him and Arlington by the hand of the secretary's good ser- vant and my good friend, Mr. Darrel! Therefore J wondered greatly at my lord’s|| friendship’ with Monmouth, and at_ his showing an attachment to the duke, which, as I had seen at Whitehall, appeared to keep in check even the natural jealousy. end resentment of a loyer. But at coutt a man went wrong if he held a thing un- likely because there was dishonor. in it. ‘There men were not ashamed to be spless themselves, nor to use their wives in the same office. There to see no evil was toy shut your eyes. I determined to keep mine open in the interests of my new patrem of an older friend, and, perhaps, of my- self, also, for Carford’s present civility scarcely masked his dislike. We rearhed Canterbury while the light of the long summer evening still served, ard clattered up the street im, muddy bravery. The town was out to see his | grace, and his grace was delighted to be seen by the town. If of their courtesy they, chose to treat him as a prince, he could scarcely refuse their homage, and if he. accepted it, it was better to accept like one. to the manner born than awkwardly; yet I, wondered whether my lord made a note in his aspiring brain of all that passed, and how soon the Duke of York would know that a Prince of Wales coming to Canter- bury could have received no greater honor. Nay, and they hailed him as the champion of the church, with hits at the Romish faith which my lord heard with eyes down cast to the ground and a rigid smile} carved on his face. It was all a forecast of what was one day to be, perhaps to the, hero of it a suggestion of what some day might be. At least, he was radiant over “HE SPRANG TO HIS FEET.” ed devoid of mirth, and t6 express a railing mockery of herself and what she did. I saw the king watching us with atten- tive eyes and brows bent in a frown. “Gocd-bye,” said I. Looking into her eyes, I let my gaze dwell long on her. It dwelt longer than I meant, reluctant to take last leave of old friends. Then I kiss- ed her hand and bowed very low to the king, who replied with a good-natured nod, then turning, I passed out of the room. I take it that the change from youth to manhood, and again from full manhood to decline, comes upon us gradually, never ceasing, but never swift, as mind and body alike are insensibly transformed beneath the assault of multitudinous unperceived forces of matter and of circumstances; it is the result we know; that, not the pro- cess, is the reality for us. We awake to find done what our sleepy brains missed in the doing, and after months or years per- ceive ourselves in a second older by all that period. We are jogged by the elbow, rous- ed ruthlessly and curtly bidden to look and see how we are changed, and wonder, weep or smile as may seem best to us in the face of the metamorpho: A moment of such awakening came to me now. I seemed a man different from him who had, no great number of minutes before. hastened to the | house, inspired with an insane hope and aflame with a passion that defied reason, and summed up life in longing. The lack- eys were there still, the maid’s smile al- tered only by a fuller and more roguish in- sinuation. On me the change had passed, and I looked, open eyed, on what I had been. Then came a smile close neighbor to a groan, and the scorn of myself, which is the sad delirium wrought by moving time; but the lackey held the door for me and I passed out. A noise sounded from above as the case- ment ef the window was thrown open. She looked out. Her anger was gone: her emo- tion seemed gone also. She stood there, smiling, very kindly, but with mocker: She held in either hand a fiower. One s smelled and held her face long to it, as though its sweetness kept her senses will- ing prisoners; turning to the other she smelied it for a short instant, and then drew away, her face, that told every mocd with unfailing aptness, twisted into disap- pointment er disgust. She leaned out, look- ing down on me; now behind her shoulder I saw the king’s biack face, half hidden by the hangings of the ‘window. She glanced at the first flower, then at the sec- heid up both her hands for a mo- ment, turned for an instant with a coquet- tsh smile toward the swarthy face be- hind, then handed the first flower with a lavgh into a hand that was stretched out for it, and flung the second down to me. As it ficated through the air the wind disengaged its loose petals, and they drift- ed away, some reaching the ground, some caught by gusts and carried away, circling The stalk fell by me, almost naked, stripped of its bloom. For the second flower was faded and had no sweetness nor life left in it. Again her laugh sounded above me, and the case- ment closed. I bent and picked up the stalk. Was it her own mood she told me in allegory? Or was it the mood she knew to be in me? ‘There had been an echo of sorrow in the laugh, of pity, kindness and r. t, and the laugh that she uttered in giving the fresh bloom to the king had seemed pure mockery. It was my love, not hers, that found its symbol in the dying flower and the stalk robbed of its glory. She nad said well, it was as she had said. I picked up what she flung and went on my way, hugging my dead. In this manner, then, have I, Simon the old, shown how I, Simon the young, was brought back to my senses. It is all very long ago. CHAPTER X. Je Viens, Tu Viens, 11 Vient. It pleased his grace the Duke of Man- mouth so to do all things that men should heed his doing of them. Even in those days, and notwithstanding certain trans- actions hereinbefore related, I was not altogether a fool, and I had not been long about him before I detected this propen- sity, and, as I thought, the intention un- derlying it. To set it down boldly and plainly, the more the Duke of Monmouth was in the eye of the nation, the better the nation accustomed itself to regard him as the king’s son. The more it fell into the Where birth is beyond reproach, nay be above display; a defect in the demands an ample exhibition of. the ond. It was a small matter, this to Dover, yet, that he might not train of his father and the his own. going, first but make men talk of chose to set out beforehand and lest even thus he should of notice, he set all the inns and all the it, and carried Carford off with him into his apartment in the merriest mood. He did not invite me to join his party, and 1 was well content to be left to wander for an hour in the quiet close of the great cathedral. For let me say that a young man who has been lately crossed in love is in a better mood for most unworldly meditation than he is likely to be before or after. And ff he would: not.he gaken too strictly at his word ih-all he ¥Ays to him- — then, why, who *would,} pray, and wh It was not my fault, down to our nature, that but must be set in time my stom- ach eried out angrily at my heart, and I returned to the inn, seeking supper. His erace was closeted with my lord, dd turned into the public room, desiring no. cther company than what should lie on my plote. But my host immediately made me aware that I must share my meal and the table with a traveler who had recently arrived and ordered a repast. This gentle- man, concerning whom the host seemed in some perplexity, had been informed that the Duke of Monmouth was in the house, but had shown neither excitement at the news nor surprise, nor, to the host's great scandal, the least desire for a sight of his grace. His men servants, of whom he had two, scemed tongue tied, so that the host doubted if they had more than a few phrases of English, and set the whole party down for Frenchme: Hasn’t the gentleman given his name?” I asked. “No. He didn’t offer it, and since he flung down money enougi for his ent ainment I had no cause to ask it.” “None,” I remarked, “unless a man may be allowed more curiosity than a beast. Stir yourself about supper,” and, walking in, I saluted with all the courtesy at my command a young gentleman of clegant appearance, so far as I could judge of him in traveler's garb, who sat at the table. His greetin; equaled mine in politeness, and we fell into talk on different matters, he using the English language, which he spoke with reraarkable fluency, although evidently as a foreigner. His manner was eesy and assured, and I took it for no more than an accident that his pistol lay “I Sat There Laughing in Sheer De- Nght.” ready to his hand beside a small case or pocket book of leather on’ the table. He asked me my business, and I told him sim- ply that it was going in the duke’s train to Dover. “Ah, to meet Madam the Duchess of Or- leans?” said he. “I heard of her com- ing before I left France. Her visit, sir, will give great pleasure to the king, her brother.” “More, if report speak true, than to the prince, her husband,” said I, with a laugh. For the talk at court was that the Duke of Orlcans hated to let his wife out of his init. Both ‘nad ‘helt reason i ae or in it. eir reasons, I do doubt. a oe “Perhaps,” he answered “But it’s hard to Know the matters. I am myself truth in these many gentlemen at the French they have much to gay, Sieve anne but I bel little bog Ay eve vl I it id his prudence, ge, ed to. pursue ae with a shrug. must have passed some time in this coun- | sudden air of excitement. Carford stepped try. ‘ - 4 “Yes, he replied. “I was in London for year or more. a lictle while ago.”’ _ “Your English, puts my French to the blush,” I laug! else. hospitality. would bid me use wel janguse . h “You speak. "he asked. “I con- fess it is en: me. “Only a . and that learned from Merchants, net gt cour! For traders of alt nations ‘come from time to time to my uncle’ at Norwich. “But I belipve,you speak very well,” he insisted politely, “Pray, let me judge of your skfll for myself.” I was about te oblige him, when a loud dispute arose, outside, French ejaculations mingling wit glish oaths. Then came a scuffle. With a hurried apology the gen- tleman. sprang, to his feet and rushed out. I went on with my supper, supposing that Lis servants had fallen into some alterca- tion witn the Jandlord and that the par- ties. could not make cne another under- stand. My conjecture was confirmed when the traveler: zeturned, declaring that the quarrel arose over the capacity of a meas- ure of wine and had been soon arranged. But then, with a little cry of vexation, he caught up the pecket book’from the table #nd darted a quick glance of suspicion at me.’ Twas more amazed than angry, and my, smile caused him confusion, for he saw that T had detected his fear. Think- ing him punished enovgh for his rudeness. -although it might find some excuse in the indifferent honesty of many who freaqueut- ed the roads ih'the guise of travelers, I relieved him by resuming the conversation, saying, with a smile: =“In truth, my French is the schoolboy’s French. I can tell the parts of the verb #aime, tu aimes, il aime; it goes so sir. and no further. “Net far ins speech, though often far enough in act,” he laughed. : vith a sigh. 4 do yourself injusti > of the same si about for 2nother which to humor him, L touk the ‘irs ame to my tong the table, for I with a smile: “W This is.some:hing to know, . viens, tu vieas if viens.” -A@-dL live he spring to.iisfeet with a of alarm. His liand darted to dis bre where-he had.stowed his pocket tore it out and-examined the withfurious~ haste an@+ anxteis struck still with wonder, the man s tat"He lovked at me nos, and Was full of deepest suspici his mouth to speak, “but wor fail him; he neld put the leatizern c. ward ‘me. Sirange was the que that his gesture put, L vould not doubt “T “haven t ‘touched “he book id ySIndeed,. sir, orlly your -visible agitati ¢an*gain you pardon fo1 the suggestion.” ‘hen how--how?” he muttereL You pass my¥ understanding, din-petulant amusemeni. “1 say in je: secome, thou comest, he com Words act on you like abracadabra and the blackest of magic. Yuu don’t, 1 presume, carry a horniook of French in you and if you do I haven't robbed you of it.” He was turning the little case over and "And with seemel io over in nis hands; again examining the clasps of it. His next freak snatch his pistol and look to the p I burst out laughing, for his antics seemed ab- surd. My laughter cooled m, and he made a great effort to regain his com- posure. But I began to rally him. “Mayn’'t a man know how to say in French, ‘He comes’ without stealing the knowledge from your book, sir?” I asked. “wou do us wrong if you think so much 1s known to nobody in England.” He glared at me like a man who hears jest, but cannot tell whether it conc earnest or not. “Open the case, si a nls * I continued in mock- ery. “Make sure all is there. Come, you owe me that much.” To my amazeraent he obeyed me. He opened the case and searched through tain papers which it contained. At the he sighed, as thongh in relief, yet his picious air did not leave him. Now perhaps, sir,” said I, squaring my s, ‘you'll explain the comedy.” nat he could not do. The very impossi ty of any explanation showed that end sus- el 1 ad, in the most unexpected fashion, stum- bled on some secret with him even as I had before with Darrell, Was his secret Darrell’s or his own, the same or another? What it was I could not tell, but for ce tain there it was. He had na, resource but to carfy the matter with a high hand, and to this he betook himself with a readiness of his nation. “You #sk an explanation, sir?” he sald. “There’s nothing to explain, and if there were, I give explanation when I please, and not to every fellow who chooses td ask them of me.” “I come, thou ¢omest, he comes—tis a very mysterious phrase,” said L “I can't tell what it means. And if you won't tell me, str, I must ask others.” “You'll be wiser to ask nobody,” he said menacingly. “Nay, I shali be no wiser if I ask no- I retorted with a smile. you'll tell nobody of what has pass- said he, advancing toward me with the plain intention of imposing h's will on me by fear, since persuasion failed. I rose to my feet and answered, mimicking his in- solent words. “I give promise not to ever: them of me. “You shall give me your promise before you leave this room,” he cried. His voice had been rising in passion and was now loud and fierce. Whether the sound of it had reached the room above or whether the duke and Carford had grown weary of one another I do not know. but as the French gentleman uttered this last threat Carford opened the door, stood aside to let his grace enter, and followed himself. As they came in we were in a most hostile attitude, for the Frenchman's pistol was in his hand, and my hand had fiown to the hilt of my sword. The duke looked at us in stonishment. “Why, what's this, gentlemen?” he asked. “Mr. Dale, are you at variance with this gentleman?” But before I had time to an- swer him he had stepped forward and seen the Frenchman's fact “Why, here is M. de Fontelles!” he cried in surprise. “I am very pleased to see you, sir, again in Eng- Jand. Carford, here is M. de Fontes. You were acquainted with him when he was in the suite of the French ambassador. You carry a message, sir?” I listened keenly to all that the duke’s words told me. M. de Fontelles bowed low but his confusion was in no way abated, and he made no answer to his grace’s ques- tion. ‘fhe duke turned to me, saying with some haughtiness: “This gentleman is a friend of mine, Mr. Dale. Pray why was your hand on your sword?” “Because the gentleman’s pistol was in his hand, sir.” “You appear always to be very ready for a quarrel, Mr. Dale,” said the duke, with a glance at Carford. ‘Pray, what's the dis- pute?” “YH tell your grace the whole matter,” said I readily enough, for I had nothing to blame myself with. “Nay, L won't have it told,” cried M. de Fontelles. “Its my pleasure to hear it,” ‘said the duke coldly. “Well, sir,-it was thus,” said I, with a candid air. ‘I protested to this géntieman that my French was sadly to seek; he was polite enough to assure me that I-spoke it well. Upon ts..s I owned to some small knowledge, and for an example I saig@ to him, ‘Jaime, tu aimes, il aime.’ He re- ceived the remark, sir, with the utmost amiability.” “He could~ad0“fiot less,” said the duke with a smile, - “But he wodld’Hhve it that this didn't ex- haust my treasure of learning. Therefore, after leaving me for a moment to set straight a difference that had arisen be- tween his servants and our host, he re- turned, put away a leathern case that he had left onthe table (concerning which, indeed, he ‘seemed more uneasy than Would be counted courteous here in Eng- land, seeing that I had been all the while alone in the room with ft), and allowed me to resume my exhibition of French speak- ing. To humor him and to while away the hour during ‘which I was deprived of the Pleasure of attending your grace—” “Yes, yes, Mr. Dale. Don’t delay in order bot satay | me,” said the duke, smiling still. “I leaned across the table, sir, and I made him a speech that sent him, to all seeming, half way out of his senses, for he sprang up, seized his case, looked at the fasten- ings, saw to the priming of his pistol, and finally presumed to exact from me a prom- ise that I would consult nobody as to the perplexity into which this behavior of his had flung me. To that 1 , and hence the with which I regret most humbly that your grace should have been troubled.” - im “I’m obliged tb you, Mr. Dale. , what wavhy Pies frat that : into my head. T anid to the gontienaente M de Fontelles, ‘as I understand him to be called—T said to him softly and gently, je }, tu viens —" ‘ 5 when I please, and fellow who chooses to ask forward and ‘stood beside him. ; “Jé viens, tu viens—Yes. - And any more?” cried the duke. _ ? “Yes, ur grace,” I answered, again amazed. “I compieied what grammarians call the singuiar number by adding ‘il vient,” whereupon—but I have told you.” “il vient?” cried the duke and Carford, all in a breath. “Ii vient,” 1 repeated, thinking now that 4ll the three had run mad. Carford screen- ed his mouth with his hand and whispered in the duke’s ear. The duke noddea and made some answer. Both seemed intinitely stirred and interested. M. de Fontelies had stcod in sulien silence by the tabie whtle I told the story of our quarrel; now his eyes were fixed intently on the duke’s face. “But why,” said I, “that simple phrase worked such strange agitation in the gen- tieman your grace’s wisdom may discover. I am ata loss. Sull Carford whispered, and presently the duke said: “Come, genticemen, you've failen into a foclish quarrel where no quarrel need have come. Pray, be frends again.” M. de Fontelles drew himself up stiffly. “I asked a promise of that gentleman and he refused it me.” he said. “And I asked an explanatios ileman and he refused it me, itty. We.l, then, Mr. Dale shall give his prom- ise to me. Will that be agreeabie to you, Mr. Dale of that gen- said I, just “Um at your grace’s commands in all things,” I answered, bowing. “And you'll ‘ell nobody of M. de Fontel- tation? ar grace pleas To say the truth, I don’t care a fig for his fierceness. But the explanation, sir Why, to make all level,” answered the ke, Smiling and fixing his gazesupon the i. de Fontelles wili give his i “To me, Mr. Dale, ngt to you, tae duke. What! am I noi to hear why he was so ferce with m 2 “You diin't care a fig for his fierceness, Mr. Dale,” he reminded me, lau: I saw that I was caught, a the sense to show no annoyance, although 1 must confess to a very lively curiosity. “Your grace wishes *o be alone with M. ie ous 2” I asked, readily and deferen- tialiy. . & little while, if you'll give us ne answered, but he added to Car- ». you needn't move, Carford.” So I made my bow ard left them, not well Pleased, for my brain was on the rack to dscover what might be the secret which hung on that mysterious phrase, and which I had so nearly surprised from M. de Fon- telles. turn: te © gist of it,” said I, to myself, as 1 to the kitchen, “lies, if 1 am not » in the third member. For when Je viens, tu viens, the duke in- terrupted me, crying, ‘Any more?’ I had made for the kitchen, since thers Was no other room open to me, and I found it tenan ihe French servants of M. de Fentelles, though peace had been made beiwee them and the host, they sat in deep dejection. The reason was plain to see in two empty glasses and an empty bottle on the table between them. aided, may be, by another it en,” said I, in Fren u do not drink!” bowing, but I took a third en them and motioned them to ions ch, going up They ri chair betwi be seated. “We have not the wher one. with a wistful smile, “The thing is mended eried, and calling bring three bottles. heme with his own bi With wine c with ga, a flow of telles would have ac fluency with h T di h Fis servants, ti me ef traveling in their countr: sing the incidents of the road in En ewithal, sir,” said ss Soon as told,” T the host, I bade him is more at said 1. the new b are rogues enough on the ¢ way in countries, T'll warrant,” I laughed. haps you ry not g of great zh at pbers?” ol would make a robher a poor . sir, but our master is in a different plight.” Ah, treasure?” . Sir,” answered one. ‘The other nudged him, as though to bid hin hold his tongue. “Come, fill your #1 y obeyed very readily. Well, men have met their death between here and London often enough before now,” I pursued mecitatively, twirling my gias: of wine in my fingers. “But with you for his guard M. de Fontelles should be safe enough.” “We're charged tq guard him with our lives and not leave him till he comes to the I cried, and th ambassador's house. “But these rogues hunt sometimes in threes and fou said I. “You might well lose one of your number.” ‘We're cheap, sir,” laughed one, King of France has many of us.” But if vour master were the ome?” ven then provision is made.” “What? Could y carry his message— fer if his treasure isn’t money, I must set it down as tidings—to the ambassador?” They looked at one another rather doubt- fully. But I was not behindhand in filling the: lasses. ‘Still we should go on even without Mon- eur,” said one. . But to.what end?” I cried, in feigned derision. “Why, we, too, have a message.” “Inded; can you carry the king’s mes- sage?” “None better, sir.” said the shorter of the pair, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye. For we don’t understand it. Is it difficult, then?” : Nay, it’s so simple as to seem without meaning.” bottle is “The si “What, so simple—but empty. Come, another? “Indeed, no, Monsieur.” “A iast bottle between us. I'll not be de- nied,” and I called for a fourth. When we were well started on the drink- ing’of it I asked carelessly: “And what's your message?” But neither the wine nor the negligence of my question had quite lulled their cau- tion to sleep. They shook their heads and laughed, saying: “We're forbidden to tell tha ‘Yet if it be so simple as to have no meaning, what harm in teiling it?” “But orders are orders, and we're sol- diers,” answered the shrewd short feliow. The idea had been working in my brain, growing stronger and stronger till it reach- ed conviction. I determined now to put it to the proof. “Tut,” said I. “‘You make a pretty secret of it, and I don’t blame you. But I can guess your riddle. Listen, if anything be- fell M. de Fontelles, which God for- bid——’ “Amen, amen,” they murmured, with a chuckle. : “You two, or if fate left but one, that one would ride on at his best speed to London, and there seek out the ambassa- dor ef the most Christian king. Isn’t that 2" “iso much, sir, you might guess from we've said.’ wre, aye, I claim no powers of divina- tion. Yet I'll guess a little more. On being admiited to the presence of the ambassa- dor, he would relate the sad fate of his master, and would then deliver his mes- sage, and that messenger would be—” [ arew my chair forward between them, and laid a finger on the arm of each. “That message,” said I, “would be just like this— and, indeed, it’s very simple, and seems de- void of all ratioral meaning. ‘Je viens,’ they started. “Tu viens,’ they gaped. ‘Il vient,’ I cried, triumphantly, and their chairs shot back as they sprang to their feet, astonishment vivid on -their faces. For me, I sat there, laughing in sheer de- light at the excellence of my aim and the shrewdness of my penetration. What they would have said I do not know. The door was thrown open and M. de Fontelles appeared. He bowed coldly to me and vented on his servants the anger from which he was not yet free, call them drunken knaves, and bidding them see to their horses and lie down in the stables, for he must be on his way by day- break. With covert glances at me which implored silence, and received the answer of a reassuring nod, they slunk away. I your me resolve to cure their de-! Pa such matters are best not talked of" I bowed as he dismissed me, and pursued my way to my room. A matter of gal- lantry might, it seemed. be of moment to 1 the messengers of the King of France. did not know what to make of the my: ‘y. but 1 knew there was a mystery. ‘And it turns,” said I to myseif, “on those litue words “Il vient.’ Who is he? Whence comes he? And te what end? Perhaps I shall leara tnese things at Dover.” ‘aere js this to be said. A man’s heart acties less when his head is full. On that n‘ght I did not sigh above half my usual measure. (To be continued.) See AND ARTISTS. ART Last Saturday Miss Elizabeth Laurence of this city and Mrs. Alida M. Coleman of Baltimore held a reception and exhibition of their work at 1214 Vermont avenue. Miss Laurence has recently returned from | Paris, and some of the studi¢és which she made there were shown, as well as a col- lection of outdoor studies in water color Which she painted on Staten Island. -oth landscape and marine motives were in evi- dence, but the treatment of these. studies was her too sketchy to find favor with isitors, and the verdict of approval Was more often placed on such subjects as the decorative mass of carnations. Miss Laurence is perhaps at her best in paint- ing water color heads upon ivory. Mrs. 1c an’s specimens of china painting n unusual diversity of style and in the method of handling. Espe- y pleasing efiects of color were to be ound in the decoration a couple of Sicins, and two new piec worthy o tien e the “Jubilee” and “McKinley Toast” cups. From New York ‘comes the information that the preliminary sketch has been com- pleted for the equestrian statue of Wash- ington, which the ladies of the Mount Ver- re to present to the city 1 C. French and Edward . Potter are the sculptors of this monu- ment, which is colossal in size, and is to occupy a prominent position at the junc- tion of the Rue St. Honore with the Rue Washington. For some time Mr. William Fuller Curtis has been working steadily at his specialty of burnt wood decoration, and has finished a good deal of work, which he expects to include in an exhibition a little later in the eason, before he goes abroad. His panel led “My Lady of Sleep” shows an ex- quisite profile, the hair sweeping down over the cheek so that it almost hides the face in its curves, which, like the poppy held in the delicate fingers, are suggestive of dreams. A striking subject is a panel which he has framed in hammered copper, showing a processign of monks going down hill; and two heads, a bishop's and a nun’s, are very clever in treatment. Mr. Curtis’ | largest work, one of several which may now be seen at Fischer's, is the tife-size figure of a woman in a loose flowing gown, against a background which suggests an ncient tapestry. It is interesting to see in how many ways this medium adapts it- self to artistic expression. Four ofls by Charles’ Morris Young were placed on exhibition at Veerhoff’s prior to that artist’s going abroad. All are sub- jects from farm life and show a true and natural country feeling. One is of cows going along a willow-bordered road, just jafter a rain. In this the purple hues of sunset are Tather erude, but the freshness out-of-doors is well rendered. Another canvas. which has a great deal of sunlight in it, shows a group of cattle standing in a stream, while a third shows the cows passing through the pasture bars on their homeward way with the moon rising through a little drift of clouds. In this one the animals are not drawn with much at- tention to details, but the evening feeling hich pervades the subject is very charm- ing. The other picture, full of the spirit of Thanksgiving, appropriately represents a field of golden corn shocks. Besides the oils 2 number of water colors by the same artist are shown. * * * A special meeting of the Water Color Club is to be heid this afternoon to discuss the postponement of the exhibition, which was to have opened on December 6. The plan which will doubtless be adopted is to postpone the opening of the exhibit until December 13 and to set Monday and Tuesday, the 29th and 30th of November, as the days for receiving pictures. This change has been rendered imperative by the date of the loan exhibit. From the present outlook it does not seem as though the proportion of outside work would be unusually large, and local exhibitors may be pretty sure that works up to the high ndard of merit established will not be rejected on account of lack of space. There is ample room for a large display of water colors and pastels, without hanging more than two lines of pictures, and the custom of skying works, to the great wrath of the victims, need no longer be resort- ed to. * x x There are several new specimens of early English art at Fischer's, perhaps the most noticeable among them being a portrait of Lady Hamilton by Romney. This is an un- finished work, in fact, little more than a sketch, but one which makes a strong im- pression, partly on account of the striking attitude of the lady. There is a picture by Lawrence of the Angerstein children at play in a garden, very true and charming in the expression of the faces, specially in that of the little girl in the center with her foot on the spade, upon whom the light falls with exquisite effect. Among the other portraits is one by Allan Ramsey of Lady Wymess, a straight-browed, patri- cian-looking dame. Mr. Fischer also has a picture by Aime Morot which is very strik- ing. Although the coloring seems a trifle crude and some portions of the work ap- pear to be lacking in finish, the painting instantly commands attention because of the splendid action. The central figure in the scene is an Arab carried by a magnifi- cent black horse. He carries his gun in his left hand, and in the very act of replac- ing his piste) fn its holster with his right, glances backward over his shoulder to where his pwrsuer falls from his horse, ap- parently shot dead. In the background others are seen, engaged in a fierce skir- mish. The scene is very sunny and light and the figures stand out in bold relief. « * * x The poster which announces to the pass- ers-by on Connecticut avenue that there is a loan exhibit at No. 1020 attracts much attention, and as many pause to look at it their appetites are whetted for a glance at the treastres’ within. The author of this masterpiéce is the versatile Mr. Spencer Nichols. One of its chief merits in the eyes of his brother artists is that it is quite un- like other posters. The figure is graceful and dignified, and the general effect is rather classic. Even the children on the street stop to admire the “bully picture,” and surely this is the next best thing to having the approval of the birds, like that Greek painter of old that we read about. —_.__. A Swift Fall From Grace. From the Piedmont Virginian. The colored people in the neighborhood of Brandy Station had a revival at one of their churches that lasted about five weeks, and on Thursday before they closed there were two sinners, Thamas Parker and Daniel Somers, converted,- On Friday night they stole Mr. Richard Nalle's chickens, traded them on Saturday for clothes to be baptized in, were baptized on ae and were arrested and jailed on Monday. THE WHEELS OF HEALTH. There is no better exercise for a young woman in thoroughly good health than bicycling. On the contrary, if she suffers from weakness or disease of the distinctly feminine organs, if she rides, at all, such exercise should be very sparingly indulged in. Women are peculiarly constitute? and their general health is peculiarly dependent upon the health of the specially femin: organism. It is the health of these delicate and portant s that “‘makes the wheels of general health go round.” Their strength and vigor are as important to a woman as a mainspring to a watch, or a sprocket and chain to a bicycle. Dr. Pierce's Prescription is the best of all medi delicate women. It makes them strong where they most need sirength. during the “interesting interval, ishes the usual squeamishness and makes baby’s admission to the world easy and al most painless. It fits a woman for in-do: work and out-door sports, Honest druggist. don’t advise substitutes. enough in praise of Dr. Pierce's Favorite Presch ption ast hus undoubtedly saved my life,” writes Mrs. Florence Hunter, of Corley Logan Co., Ark. “IT miscarried four times: could get no medicine todo me any good. I tried the peavorite Prescription "wid after taking several bottles, T made my husband a_prese fine girl, "I think it is the best medicine in the world.” - A man or woman who neglects constipa- tion suffers from slow poisoning. Doctor Pierce’s Pleasant Pellets cure constipa- tion. One-little**Pellet?* 4s a gentle lax: tive, and two a mild cathastic. All medi- cine dealers. ——— ae =. Dooley on Paterval Duty. From the Chicago Evening Post, “I'm havin’ a time iv fit with Terence, said Mr. Hennessy, despondently. “What's th’ la-ad been doin’?” asked Mr. Dooley. “It ain't so much what he’s doin’,” Mr. Hennessy explained, “as what he ain't do- in’. He ain't stayin’ home tv nights, an’ he ain't wur-rkin’, but he does be out on th’ corner with th’ Cromleys an’ th’ rist dancin’ jig steps-and. whistlin’ th’ “Rogue's March’ whin a polisman goes by. Sure, I can do nawthin’ with him, fr he’s that kind an’ good at home that he'd melt th’ heart iv a man iy stone. But its gray my Wife ts, thinkin’ iv what's to become iv him whin he gets to be a man grown. Ye'or lucky, Martin, that ye'er childless. “Sure, 1 cudden't be anny other way an’ houled me good name,” sald Mr. Dooley. “An whin I luk about me sometimes it’s glad I am. They’se been times, perhaps- but lave that go. Is there somethin’ in th’ air, or is it in ourselves, that makes th’ childher nowadays turn out to curse th’ lives iv thim that give thim life? It may be in th’ thrainin’. When I was a kid they were brought up to love, honor and respect th’ old folks, that their days might be long in th’ land. Amen. If they didn’t, th’ best they cud do was to say nawthin’ about it. "Twas th’ back iv th’ hand an’ th’ sow! iv th’ fut to th’ la-ad that put his spoon first into the stirabout. Between th’ whal- ins we got at school, histed on th’ back iv th’ big boy that was bein’ thrained to be a Christyan brether th’ thumpins we got at home, we was kept sore an’ sthraight fr'm wan year’s end to another. "Twas no mild doses they give us, ayether. I mind wanst, whin I was near as big as I am now, I handed back some onkind re-emarks to me poor father, that’s dead. May he rest in peace, per dominum. He must fy been a small man an’ bent with wurruk an’ worry. But did he take me jaw? He did not. He hauled off an’ give me a rright hook where th’ bad wurruds come frm. I put up a pretty fight f'r me years, but th’ man doesn’t Hive that can lick his own father. He rowled me acrost an oat field an’ I give up. I didn’t love him anny too well f'r that lckin’, but I respected him, an’ if he'd come into this place tonight, an’ he’d be near a hundred—he was born in th’ year "98, an "pikes was hid in his cradle— if he come in here tonight an’ pulled me ear I'd fear to go again him. 1 wud so.” —— A Fountain fn a Stam From the Richmond (Va.) Register. Messrs. H. W. and J. M. Cornelison re- port a curious phenomenon on the farm of T. J. Smith, two miles from town on the Lancaster pike. On cutting down a large elm tree, they were astonished to see a stream ef water gush out of the stump, and fall in sparkling spray like water from a fountain. This was two weeks and there has been no cessation of flow. The supposition is that there is spring beneath the tree. to which a tree worms during the drouth made an arti- ficial channel, and when the tree was cut the water found a way of escaping. Both gentlemen will youch for the truth of the Labor Time y~ GOST WaAsHING PowoE ‘What more can be asked ?_ Only this; ask your grocer for it, and insist on trying it. Largest package—greatest economy. THE X. K. FAIRBANK COMPANY, Chicago, Boston, Bt. Louis, New Yoru,