Evening Star Newspaper, January 29, 1898, Page 16

Written for The Evening Star. Chapter \X111l—Continued. ‘The matter was thus decided. Yet now, fn quiet blood and in the scenery of my own soul, shall I ask wherefore the letter came from Mistress Gwyn, to whom the shortest letter was no light matter, and to let even a humble man go, some small sac- rifice? And why did it come to Barbara and not to me? And why did it not say, “Simon, sh: loves you,” rather than the words that I now read, Barbara permitting tne: “Pretty fool, he loves you.” Let me not ask; not even now would Barbara bear to think it was written in pity for her. “Yes, she pitied you, and so she wrote, and she lov2s you,” said Barbara. I let it pass. Shall a man never learn wisdom? “Teli me now,” said I, “why may I not see Carford?” Her lips curved in a smile; she held her head high and her eyes w2re triumphant. “You may see Lord Carford as soon as will, Simon,” said she. we But a tew minutes ago—” I began, much puzzied. “A few minutes!” criel Barbara, re- proachfuily. 2 ‘A whoie lifetime ago, sweetheart!” “And shall that make ro changes?” “A whole lifetime ago you were ready to soo.er than let me see him.” “Simon, you're v2ry—ne knew, I told bore told him?” I cried. “Before you volte asked me before,” said Barbara. I did not grudge her that retort; every jot of her hop at joey to me, and her delight. Gore: aid I aa to tell him?” she asked herself softly. “Ah, but how have I con- trived not to tell oe the world? How " jain in my face? “at ater raiied profoundly hidden,” I as- sured her. Indeed, from me it had been; but Barbara's wit had yet another answer. “You wer2 looking in another face,” said she. Tien, as the movement of my hands protested, remorse seized on her, and, hing my hand, she corte nuances Se 3 of ita in, . affair as to demand that utter silence on it, in which point les a difference between men and women. To have wandered troubles our conscience littl, when we have come to the right path again. Their pride stands so strong in constancy as sometimes (I speak in trembling) even to beget an oblivion of its falterings and make what should not have ben as if it had not. But now was not the moment for excuse,~ and I took my pardon with all gratitude, and with full allowance of my offense’s ity. “then we determined that Carford must immediately be sought, and set out for the house with intent~to-find him. Yet our progress was very slow and the moon rose in the skies before we stepped out onto the avenue and came in sight of the house and terrace. There was so much to tell, so much that had to slough off its old seeming and take of néw and radiant ap- parel, things that.she had understood and not I, that I had caught and she missed, wherein both of us had gone astray most lamentably, and now stood aghast at our own sightlessness. Therefore never were our feei fairly In movement toward the house bul a sudden, “Do you remember? wave them pause again. Then came shame that I had forgotten or indignation that Barbara should be thought to have for- gotten, and in both of these cases the need for expiation, and so forth. The moon was high in heaven when we stepped into the avenue and came in sight of the ter- race. On the instant, with a low cry of sur- prise and alarm, Barbara caught me by the arm, while she pointed to the terrace. The sight might well turn us, even from our engrossing interchange of memories. There were four men on the terrace, their figures standing out dense and ‘black against the old gray walls that seemed white in the moonlight. Two stood im- passive and motionless, with hands at their sides. At their feet lay what seem- ed bundies of clothes. The other two were in their shirts. They were opposite one another, and théir swords were in their hands. I could not doubt the meaning. While love held me idle anger had lent Fontelles speed; while 1 sought to perfect my jey, he had been hot to avenge his d honor. I did not know who were the two that watched, unless they were servants. Fontelles’ fierce mood would not stand for the niceties of etiquette. Now I could recognize the Frenchman's bearing, and even see Carford’s face, al- though distance hid its expression. I was amazed and at a loss what to do. How could I stop them and by what right? But then Barbara gave a little sob and whis- pered: “My mother lies sick in the house.” It was enough to loose my bound limbs. I sprang forward and set out at a run. I had not far to go, and lost no time; but I would not cry out lest I might put one off his guard and yet not arrest the other's stroke. For the steel flashed and they fought under the eyes of the quiet servants. I was near now to them, and already wondering how best to interpose, when, in an instent, the Frenchman lung- ed, Carford cried out, his sword dropped from his hand and he fell heavily on the gravel of the terrace. The servants rush- ed forward and knelt down beside him. M. de Fontelles cid not leave his place, but stood, with the point of his naked sword on the ground, looking at the man who had put an affront on him and whom he had now chastised. The sudden change that took me from love's pastime to a scene so stern deprived me of speech for a moment. I ran to Fontelles, and faced him, panting, but saying nothing. He turned his eyes on me. They were calm, but shone stili with the heat of contest and the sternness of resentment. He rais- ed his sword and pointed with it toward where Carford lay. “My lord there,” said he, “knew a thing that hurt my honor, and did not warn me of it. He knew that I was made a tool and did not tell me. He knew that I was ed for base purposes and sought to use me for his own also. He has his recom- pense.” Then he stepped across to where the green bank sloped down to the terrace, falling on one knee, wiped his blade he grass. CHAPTER XXIV. A Comedy Before the King. On the next day but one M. de Fontelles and I took the road together for London. Carford lay between life and death (for the point had pierced his Iung) at the inn to which we had borne him. He could do no more harm and occasion us 20 uneasiness. On the other hand, M. de Fontelles was anxious to seek out the French ambassador, With whom he was on friendly terms, and enlist his interest; first, to excuse the aban- donment of his mission, and in the second place, to explain the circumstances of his duel with Carford. In this latter task he 1, since I alone, saving the Servants, had been a witness of the en- counter, and Fontelles, recognizing (now that his rage was passed) that he had been wrong to force his opponent to a meeting under such conditions, prayed my testi- mony to vindicate his reputation. I could not deny him, and moreover, though it grieved me to be absent from Quinton man- or, I felt that Barbara's interests and my own might be well served by a journey to London. No news had come from my lord, and I was eager to see him and bring him over to my side; the disposition of the king was al- so a matter of moment and uncertainty; would he still seek to gain for M. de Per- rencourt what that exacting gentleman re- quired, or would he now abandon the strug- gle in which his instruments had twice fail- ed him? His majesty should now be re- turning from Dover, and I made up my mind to go to ccurt and learn from him the worst and the best of what I might look for. Nay, I will not say that the pure desire to see hi face to face had not weight with me, for I believed he had a Uking for me, and that I should obtain from him better terms in my own person than if my cause were left in the hands of those who surrounded him. When we were come to London (and I pray that it be observed and set down to | THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JANUARY 29, 1898—24 PAGES, COPYRIGHT .1097 pig 5 OY _AMMAWKINS.. my credit that, thinking there was enough of love-making in this history, I have spar- ed any narrative of my farewell to Barbara, although oa my soul it was most moving) M. de Fontelles at once sought the ambas- sador’s, taking my promise to come there as soon as his summons called, while I be- took myszif to the lodging which I had shared with Darrell before we went to Dover. I hoped to find him there and re- new our friendship; my grudge was for his masters, and I am not for making an en- emy of a man who does what his service demands of him. I was not disappointed. Robert opened the door to me, and Darrell himself sprang to his feet in amazement at the sound of my name. I laughed heartily and flung myself into a chair, saying: “How goes the treaty of Dover?” He ran to the door and tried-it. It was cose shut. “The less you say of that the safer you'll be,” said he. “Oho,” thought I. “Then I’m not going to market empty handed if I want to buy; it seems that I have something to sell. And, smiling very good-humoredly, I sak “What, is there a secret in it?” Darrell came up to me and held out his hand. Y “On my life,” said he, “I didn’t know you were interested in the lady, Simon, or I wouldn’t have taken a hand in the affair.” “On my life,” said I, “I'm obliged to you. What of Mile. de Querouaille?” “She has returned with madame.” “But will return without madame?” “Who knows?” he asked, with a smile that he could not smother. ‘God_and the king,” said I. “What of M. de Perrencourt?”" “Your tongue’s hung so loo: that one day it'll hang you tight. “Enough, enough. What, then, of Phin- eas Tate?” : “He.is on board ship ori his way to the plantations. He'll find plenty to preach to there.” S “What! Why, there’s never a Papist sent now. He'll mope to death. What of the Duke of Monmouth?” “He has found out Carford.” “He has? Then he has found out the sec- retary also.” “There is irdeed a distance between his grace and my lord,” Darrell admitted. “When rogues fall out! A fine saying that, Darrell. And what of the king?” “My lord tells me that the king swears he won't sleep o° nights till he has laid a certain troublesome fellow by the heels.’ “And where is that same troublesome fellow?” “So near me that, did I serve the king as I ought, Robert would now be on his way with news for my Lord Arlington.’ “Then his majesty’s sentiments are mighty unkind toward me? Be at peace, Simon, —ssh play? It is I—I myself.” “True, true. I forgot you, Mistress Nell.” “You did forget me, Simon. ‘ But I must spare you, for you will have heard that same charge of fickleness from Mistress Quinton, and it is hard to hear it from two at once. But who shall play my part?” “Indeed, I can think of none equal to it.’ “The king shall play it,” she cried with a triumphant laugh and stood opposite to me, the embodiment of merry triumph. “1 you catch the plot of my piece, Simon?” “I am very dull,” I confessed. “It's your condition, not your nature, Simon,” Nell was so good as to say. “A man in love is ever dull, save to the one woman, and she’s stark Come, can you feign an-inclination for me or have you forgot the trick?” At the moment she spoke the handle of the door turned. Again it-turned and was rattled. “I locked it,” whispered Nell, her eyes full of mischief. Again and ntost impatiently the handle was twisted to and fro. “Pat, pat, how pat he comes,” she whis- pered. A last loud rattle followed, then a voice cried in anger. “Open it. I bid you open it” “God help us!” I exclaimed in sad per- plexity. “It’s the king.” “Yes, it's the king, and, Simon, the Plece begins. Look as terrified as you can. It’s the king.” “Open, I say, open,” cried the king, with a thundering knock. I understood now that he had been in the other room, and that she had left his so- clety to come to me. But I understood dimly only why she had locked the door, and why she now was so slow in opening it. Yet I set my wits to work, and for further aid watched her closely. She was worth the watching. Without aid of paints or powders, of scene or theater, she trans- formed her hair, sa Epeconti RL face also. Alarm and terror sho’ her eyes as she stole in tearful fashion across the room, unlocked the door, and drew it open, herself standing by it, stiff and rigid in what seemed shame or con- sternation. The agitation she feigned found some reality in me. I was not ready for the thing, although I had been warned by the voice outside. When the king stood in the doorway I wished myself a thousand miles away. The king was silent for several moments. He seemed to me to repress a passion , let loose, might hurry him to vio- lence. When he spoke he was smiling ironically, and his voice was calm. < “How comes this gentleman here?” ‘he ked. “The terror that Nell had so artfully as- “HE POINTED TO WHERE CARFORD LAY.” « Darrell. I am come to London tq seek tho seek him? Are you mad? You'll follow Phineas Tate!” “But I have a boon to ask of the king. I! she asked. desire him to use his good offices with my Lord Quinton. For I am hardly a fit match for my lord’s daughter, and yet I would make her my wife.” “I wonder,” observed Darrell, “that you, Simon, who, being a heretic, must go to hell when you die, are not more careful of your life.” ‘Then we both fell to laughing. i “Another thing brings me to London,” I pursued. “I must see Mistress Gwyn. He raised his hands over his head. “Fill up the measure,” said he. “The king knows you came to London with her, and is more enraged at that than all the rest.” “Does he know what happened on the journey?" “Why, no, Simon,” smiled Darrell. “The matter is just that. The king does not know what happened on the journey.” “He must learn it,” I declared. ‘’Tomor- row I'll seek Mistress Gwyn. You shall send Robert to take her pleasure as to the heur when I shall wait on her.” “She's in a fury with the king, as he with her.” “On what account?” Jready, friend Simon, you're too wise!” ‘By heaven, I know! It’s because Mlle. Querouaille is so good a Catholic!” Darrell had no denial ready. He shrug- ged his shoulders and sat silent. Now, although I had told Barbara that it was my intention to ask an audience from the king, I had not disclosed my pur- pose of seeing Mistress Nell: Yet it was firm in my mind—for courtesy’s sake. Of a truth, she had done me a great service. Was I to take it as though it were my right, with never a word of thanks? Curi- osity also drew me, and that attraction which she never lost for me, nor, as I be- lieve, for any man whose path she had crossed. I was sure of myself, and did not fear to go. Yet memory was not dead in me, and [ went in a species of excitement, the ghost of old feelings dead, but not for- gotten. When a man has loved, and sees ber whom he loves no more, he will not be indifferent; angry he may be, or scornful; amused he may be, and he should be ten- der, bui it will not be as though he had not loved. Yet I had put a terrible affront on her, and it might be that she would not receive me. As I live. I believe that but for one thing she would not. That turned her, by its ap- peal to her humor. When I came to the house in Chelsea I was sconducted into a small ante-chamber and there waited long. There were voices speaking in the next reom, but I could not hear th. Mote waar eir speech. ways—aye, But rew there was something which barred its way to my heart The door in front of me opened, and she was in ihe room with me. There she was courtesying low in mock obeisance and Me Preps oe man!” she cried. * afraid to come.” z te ec wrapped in civility! I do not “Mistress Nell, I came to th: = the greatest kindness" sep aig “If it be kindness to help you to " said Mistress Nell. “What beaten ‘Jour ds Sar oe brings you to town?” must forgive her the style in spoke of Barbara. I answered with «entre I must see the king. I don't know hi purposes about me. Besides, 1 desire that he should help me to my—fool.” “If you're wise you'll keep out of his sight.” Then she began to laugh. “Nay, but I don’t know," she said. Then with a swift movement she was by me, catching aiymy Coat and turning up to mea face of merriment. “Shall w - edy?” she asked. pce “As you will. What shall be my part?’ ‘I'll give you a pretty part, Simon. Your face 1s very smooth; nay, do not fear, 1 remember so well that I needn’t try again. You shall be this French lady of whom they speak.” “I the French lady! God forbid!’ “Nay, but you shall, Simon. And I'll be the king. Nay, I say, don’t be afraid. I Swear you tried to run away then.” “Is it not prescribed as the best cure for temptation?” “Alas, u're not tempted,” she said with ‘But there's another part in the ‘Besides the king and mademoiselle?” “Why, yes—and a great part.” “Myself by chance?” “You! No! What should you do in the LT a HES re te Tat a as Ste cc i a a ce * sumed she appeared now, with equal art, to defy or conquer. She answered him with angry composure. “Why shouldn't Mr. Dale be here, sir?” “Am I to see no friends? Am T to live all alone?” “Mr. Dale is no friend of mine— “Sir—" I began, but his raised hand stayed me. “And you have no need of friends when I am here!” “Your majesty,” said she, “came to say farewell. Mr. Dale was but half an hour too soon.” This answer showed me the game. If he had come to bid her farewell—why, I un- derstood now the parts in the comedy. If he left her for the French woman, why should she not turm to Simon Dale? The king bit his lip. He also understood her answer. “You lose no time, mistress,” he said, with an uneasy laugh. “I've lost too much already,” she flashed ck. “With me?” he asked, and was answered by a sweeping courtesy and a scornful smile. “You're a bold man, Mr. Dale,” said he. “I knew it before and am now most con- vinced of it.” “I didn’t expect to meet your majesty here,” said I sincerely. “I don’t mean that. here at all.” “Mistress Gywn is very kind to me,” said I. I would play my part and would not fail her, and I directed a timid yet amorous glance at Nell. The glance reached Nell, but on its way it struck the king. He was patient of rivals, they said, but he frowned now and muttered an oath. Nell broke into sudden laughter, but it sounded forced and unreal. It was meant so to sound. “We're old friends,” said she, “Simon and I. We were friends—before I was what I am. We are still friends now that I am what I am. Mr. Dale escorted me from London to Dover.” pee is an attentive squire,” sneered the in You're bold to come i. e hardly left my side,” said Nell. ‘You were hampered with a companion.” “Of a truth I hardly noticed it,” cried Nell, with magnificent falsehood. I second- ed her efforts with a shrug and cunning smile. “I begin to understand,” said the king. “And when my farewell has been said, what then?” “I thought that it had been said half an hour ago,” she exclaimed. ‘Wasn't it?” “You were anxious to hear it, and so seemed to hear it,” said he, uneasily. She turned to me with a grave face and tender eyes. “Didn't I tell you here, just now, how the king parted from me?” I was to take the stage now, it seemed. “Aye, you told me,” said I, playing the agitated lover as best I could. “You told me that—that—but I cannot speak before his majesty.” And I ended in a most rare confusion. “Speak, sir,” he commanded, harshly and curtly. “You told me,” said I, in low tones, “that the king left you. And I said I was no king, but that you need not be left alone.” My eyes fell to the ground in pretended ear. The swiftest glance from Nell applauded me. I would have been sorry for him and ashamed for myself had I not remembered M. de Perroncourt and our voyage to Ca- jais. In that thought I steeled myself to hardness, and bade conscience be still. A long silence followed. Then the king drew near to Nell. With a rare stroke of skill she seemed to shrink away from him and edged toward me, as though she would take refuge in my arms from his anger or his coldness. ‘ine I've never hurt you, Nelly,” said Alas, that art should outstrip nature! Never have I seen portrayed go finely the resentment of a love that, however greatly wounded, is still love; that, even in turn- ing away, longs to turn back, that calls even in forbidding, and in refusing breathes the longing to assent. Her feet still came toward me, but her eyes were on the king. “You sent me away,” she whispered, as she moved toward me and looked where the king was. “I was in a temper,” said he. Then he turned to me, saying, ‘Pray leave us, sir.” I take it that Il must have obeyed, but Nell sprang suddenly forward, caught my hand, and, holding it, faced the “He sha’n't go; or, if you send him away, me fing on ed heavily, but wnt ly, dia speak. She went on, ia him, and now was the test of it. “Will you take my" ” “Mr. sala het “‘it is hard to reason before genth with a lady jeman. ae ygu go. But will you suffer me to to that room : 1 bowed low. — “And,” he went on, /*will you excuse our hostess’ presence for a while?” Ibowed again, 5 “No, I won't go, with you,” cried Nell. “Nay, but Nelly, you will,” said he, smil- ing now. “Come, I'm old and mighty ugly, and Mr. Dale isa sttapping fellow. You must be kind to the unfortunate, Nelly. She was holding my hand still. The king took hers. Very slowly and reluctantly she let him draw her away. I did what seemed best to do. I sighed very heavily and plain- tively and bowed in sad submission. “Wait till we return,” said the king, and his tone was kind. ‘They passed out together, and I, laughing, yet ashamed to laugh, flung myself in a chair. She would not keep him for herself alone; nay, as all the world knows, she made but a drawn battle of it with the French woman, but the disaster and utter defeat that had threatened her she had averted; jealousy had achieved what love could not. He would not let her go now, when another’s arms seemed open for hi To this success I had helped her. On my life, I was glad to have helped her. But I did not yet see how I had helped my own cause. I was long in the room alone, and though the king had bidden me await his return, he did not come again. Nell came alone, laughing, radiant and triumphant. She caught me by both hands and swiftly, sud- denly, before I knew, kissed me on the cheek. Nay, come, let me be honest. I knew a short moment before, but on my honor I.cduld not avoid it courteously. “We've won,” she cried. “I have what I desire, and you, Simon, are to seek him at Whitekall. He has forgiven you all your sins, and—yes, he'll give you what favor you ask. He has pledged his word to me. “Does he know what I shall ask?" “No, no, not yet. Oh, that I could see his face. Don’t spare him, Simon. Tell him— why, tell him all the truth—every word of it, the stark, bare truth,” “How shall I say it?” A “Why, that you love, and have ever loved, and will ever love Mistress Barbara Quinton, and that you love not, and never will love, and have never loved, no, nor cared the price of a straw, for Eleanor Gwyn.” : “Is that the whole truth?” said I. She was holding. my hands still. pressed them now and sighed lightly. “Why, yes, it’s the whole truth. Let it be the whole truth, Simon. What matters that a man once lived when he’s dead, or once loved when he loves no more! : “Yet I won't tell him more. than is true,’ said L 3 e She “You'll be ashamed to say anything else,” she whispered, looking up in my fs ‘ace. : “Now, by heaven, I'm not ashamed,” said I, and I kissed her hand. “You're not?” “No, not a whit. I think I should be ashamed had my heart never strayed to you.” “Ah, but you say strayed.” I made her no answer, but asked forgive- ness with a ants She drew her hand sharply away, crying: “Go Tyonr ways, Simon Dale, go your ways. Go to your Barbara and your Hatchstead, and your dullness and your righteousness.” “We part in kindness?” I urged. For a moment’I thaught she would an- swer peevishly, but fHe mood passed, and she smiled sincttely''bn me as she made reply: zk “Aye, in all when you hear “the why, say, Simon, that even a severe gen- tleman such as’You' are once found some good in Nelly. Will you say that for me?” “With all my heart.” “Nay, I care not What you say,” she ing kindness, Simon, and ir rail on me, say— burst out, laughing “again. “Begone, be- gone. I swore thé king that I would speak but a dozén wo) to you. Begone."* I bowed and t1 ward the door. She flew ‘to me sudifenly, “as if to’ speak, but hesitated. I watted for her. At last she spoke, with eyes averted, and an unaccus- tomed embarrassment in ‘ther air. “If-if you're ‘not aXtamed to. speak my name to Mistress Bi ra, tell her I wish her well, and pray, to think as kindly of me as she tan.’ > =~ “thusg ‘to think kindly,” “She has fail said I. “And will, therefore, think unkindly. Si- mon, I bid you begone.” She held out her hand to me and I kissed it again, “This time we part for gobd and all,” said she. “Fve loved you and T’ve-hated you, and I H#¥e nearly loved you: But it’s rioth- ing to be loved by me, who love all the world.” Rpt it’s something,” said I. “Fare you well.” - I passed out, but turhed to find her eyes on me. She was laughing, and nodding her head, swaying to and fro on her feet as her manner was, she blew me a kiss from her lips. So I went, ahd my life-knew her no mcre. But when the strict rail on sinners, I guard my tongue for the sake of Nelly and the last kiss she gave me on my cheek. CHAPTER XXV. * The Mind ef M. De Fontelles. As I made’my way through. the court rothing seemed changed; all was as I had seen it when I came to lay down the com- mission. that Mistress Gwyn had got me. “They were as careless, as merry, as shame- less as before; the talk had been then of madame’s coming; now it was of her going; they talked of Dover and what had parsed there, but the treaty was dismissed with a shrug, and the one theme of in- terest and the one subject of wagers was whether or how socn Mile. de Querouaille would return to the shores and the mon- arch she had left. In me distaste now killed curiosity; I pushed along as fast as the throng allowed. me, anxious to perform my task, and be quit of them all as soon as I could. My part there was behind “Wait Till We Return,” said King. ba 3 10° me; the propheoy i wes. fulfilled, and my had a pleas- ambitions quenched. <5 Yet I ure in the remathingiecene of the ‘comedy which I was to play avith. the-king; I was. amused also. tonsee thow those whom I krew to be in te cahfidence-of the Duke of York and ofsArtinigt mingled fear and weariness, and hid dis- trust under a' most. deferential civility. They knew, it seemed, that:I had guessed their seerets.. But-F' was not afraid of them, for I was no-more their rival in the field of intrigue or in-their assault upon the. king’s favor. “Be-at peace. “In an hour from ‘now you bowed courteously to me as he added: “Is it not as I say, sir?” and awaited my reply. “It's better still, my lord,” I answered. “For he can make these bargains you speak of, and, by not keeping them, have his basket still full for another deal.” Again the king smiled, as he patted his “Very just, sir; very just,” nodded Rochester. “Thus by breaking a villain- ous bargain he is twice a-villain, and pre- serves his reputation to aid him in the more effectual cheating of his neighbor.” “And the damning of his own soul,” said the king softly. “Your majesty is defender of the faith. I will not meddle with your high office,” eaid Rochester with a laugh. “For :ny own part I suffer from a hurtful sincerity. Being known for a rogue by all the town I am become the most harmless fellow in your majesty’s dominions. As Mr. Dale here sayg—I have the honor of being ac- quainted with your name, sir—my basket is empty, and no man will deal with me.” — are women left you,” said the 't Is more expense than profit,” sighed the earl, “although, indeed, the kind crea- tures will most readily give for nothing what is worth as much.” “So that the sum of the matter,” said the king, “is that he who refuses no bargaia, however iniquitous, and performs none, however binding—” “Is a king among men, stir, Rochester, with a iow bow, majesty is here in Whitehall. “And by the same title?” “Aye, the same right divine. What think you of my reasoning, Mr. Dale?” “I do not know, my lord, whence you came by it, unless the devil hath published a tract on the matter.” “Nay, he has but circulated it among his friends,” laughed Rochester. “For he is in no need of money from the book- sellers, since he has a grant from God of the customs of the world for his support.” “Tke king must have the customs,” smil- ed Charles. “I have them here in England, but the smugglers cheat me.” “And the penitents him, sir. Faith, these holy churches run queer cargoes past his officers—or so they say,” and with another bow to the king, and one of equal cour- tesy to me, he turned away and mingied in the crowd that walked to and fro. The king sat some while silent, lazily pulling the dog’s coat with his fingers. Then he looked up at me. “Wild talk, Mr. Dale,” said he, “yet per- haps not all without a meaning.” “There's meaning enough, sir. that I miss.” “No, but perhaps you do. I have made many bargains. You don’t praise all uf interposed ven as your It’s not tion: “I would’ every man were as charitable or as dutiful. But—shall I empty my bas- ket? You know of some of my bargains. The basket is not emptied yet.” I looked full in his face. He did not avoid my regard, but sat there smiling, in a bit- ter amusement. “You are a man of reservations,” said he. “I remember them. Be at peace and hold your place. For hearken to me, Mr. Dale.” “T am lstening to your majesty’s words.’ “It will be time enough for you to open your mouth when I empty my basket.” (To be continued.) —— AS THE OLD CLOOK RAN DOWN. It Had Stopped but Twice, on Two Nery Sad Occasio: Frem the Chicago Times-Herald. He had sent for his old mother to come and sperd the holidays -with him and his fashionable wife in their fire city home. After muoly urging ske had consented to a week's Visit, telling him shé would explain why she limlied the "time when she saw him. : 1t was a Queer excuse, and it made him laugh, but it was very real to her. “Maybe you don’t remember, Dan'l,” she said, ‘but the cld clock has to be wound up every eight days, and no other hand but father’s ever wound that clock. Siace he died I've never once neglected it. Now you see I couldn't possibly sta: He wanted to say, “Let the old thing run down,” but :omething in her face stopped him. He felt as if it would be talk- Gsrespectfully of his father. He gave his mother the choice of all the guest chambers end she chose the plainest. “It will be more like home,” she said. it dawned upon him the third day of her visit that his moth«r was not happy—that she missed somethi “It can't be the clock,” he thought. doesn’t need wind- ing yet.” But it was the clock, and when he taxed her with undue affection for that antique piece of furniture she ackrowledged how much she missed it. “ “Specially at night, Dan’l. When I hear the clocks striking here I think of that pcor, lonesome thing striking the hours with nobody to hear. It dces make me homesick, I’m afraid.” Then she told him—what he had forgot- ten—that she could teli when the sun and moon rose and what day of the month it vas by the self-regulatirg calendar of that clock, and how it explained the whole solar system, and that the deeds to their prov- erty and all h's fathers’ letiers to her had always been kept in the bottom of the clock, and it had rever in all their united lives stopped but once, and that was the night father died No one could tell how it happened, fer it had been wound up. And then she cried softly, and her grown-up boy comforted her. ‘The next morning when they went to call her she lay asleep with the sweetest smile en her tranquil face, but she never re- sponded to their call. . The clock had run down. ————-eee. Primitive House Lighting. From the Chautauquan. The first and ‘most natural way of light- ing the houses of the colonists was found in the fat pitch-pine, which was plentiful everywhere; but as soon as domestic ani- mals, Increased candles were made, and the manufacture of the winter supply became the special autumral duty of the thrifty housewife. Great kettles were hung over the kitchen fire and filled with hot water and melted tallow. At the cooler end of the kitchen two long poles were placed from chair back to chair back. Across these poles, like the rounds of a ladder, were placed shorter sticks, called candle. rods. To each candle-rod were tied about a dozen straight candle wicks. The wicks were ‘dipped again and again, in regular order, in the melted tallow, the succession of dippings giving each candle time to cool. Each grew slowly in size till all were fin- ished. Deer suet was used as well as beef tallow and mutton tallow. Wax candles Were made by pressing bits of half-melted Wax around a wick. —eee—____ Siberian Horses’ Manes and Tails. From the Philadelphia Record. _ Three hundred bales‘ of horses’ manes and tails, to be used for upholstering fur- niture, have been landed here by the Brit- ish steamships Maine and Michigan from ‘London. They come from far-away Sibe- ria, and are taken from horses used by the Cossacks after the animals have outlived their usefulness. Horses are cheap in Rus- sia, and after having seen better days their manes and tails are the only things left of a commercial value. Very often these hir- gute appefdages are taken from sound ani- mals, and the beasts left to their fate. Here the upholsterers use the hair for articles of AMBULANCE SHIP FOR THE NAVY. AN AMBULANCE SHIP To Care for the Wounded in the Next Naval Battle. - WILL BE TRULY AN ANGEL OF MERCY Fitted Up With All the Latest Hospital Appliances. UNIQUE IN HER DESIGN (Copyright, 1898, by R. G. Skerrett.) Written for The Evening Star. Unique in the annals of the navy, the am- bulance ship comes now to carry the min- istering succor of the Red Cross upon a blood-stained sea. Without such an angel of mercy one well might wonder how the wounded are to be handled with enlighten- ed tenderness after our next great naval strife. Men, then, will be pitted against more awful odds than ever before, and, after the wearing strain that that knowiedge alone will bring, they will the more readily suc- cumb to injury or to shock. Shudder as one well may at the tales of the departed “cock-pit,” the story of the wounded on a modern craft in conflict will be many times worse than in the days of wooden ships, and that, too, even though science has given to physician and to surgeon means undreamed of thirty years ago. The naval architect has built his ship to Meet. as far as human foresight can, the perils of a naval battle; while the makers of guns, in turn, have fashioned their weapons so that their messengers of hard- ened metal may tear their way through six, eight, ten or a dozen inches of tem- pered steel.a good mile distant. A Dreadfal Menace. The winding ways, the narrow passes, the honeycomb of water-tight walls, and the thick masses of protecting steel that mean so much to the craft's own safety are really but the promise of a dreadful hindrance to the proper care of the in- jured in action. Doors must be closed: battle-plates must be screwed down, and armored gratings must leave room only for the passage of air. Passages may become blocked by plates that a single shot has bent; hatchways may be chocked with a tangle of metallic rubbish, and, above all, a rain of small shot may sweep the only path to proper care. Mechanical facilities have reduced the working force to a reasonable minimum, while precious space has been stocked with those instruments and means that, above all else, are to make the ship one great fighting machine. There are no su- pernumeries. Each man has his appointed place to fill, and, perhaps, a station at which he must fight, fall, or perish. Who. then, shall bear him below, even if that be possible? The guns must be worked and the foeman faced. The surgeons and their assistants must reach him as best they can, and bear him as gently and quickly as possible to the nearest bit of stinted space, and there give him that immediate relief which may mean his life. Now let us see how Surgeon General Van Reypen’s novel and noble idea has been made wonderfully practicable by the chief constructor. Picture a craft 300 feet long over all, with a beam of 50 feet, so moided that she shall be easy and comfortable under the normal stresses of weather, with an out- ward appearance not unlike a moderate- sized ocean liner, and one gets a fair no- tion of the proposed craft. Two sets of triple-expansion engines will turn her twin screws and drive her along easily at a fourteen-knot gait: and, with her bunkers Med with their 600 tons of coal, she will be able to cover 3.600 knots at full speed, or, at a ten-knot jog, will have a steaming radius of twenty-four days. Her limited sail power will be for the purpcse of steady- ing her in a seaway and making her more comfortable. With so moderate a draft as 18 feet on a total displacement of 3,530 tons she will be able to enter any desirable harbor. Beginning at the uppermost or awning deck, one finds there four large steam cut- ters and a like number of barges intended for the rapid transportation of the wounded from their shattered ships to this navigable hospital. These barges are proportioned especially for the work, and bear upon their seats or thwarts a flying floor, upon which a dozen wounded may be stretched in comfort. Bound in their hammocks and adjusted in an easy position by the well- known service device, they will be lowered into the waiting boats and promptly towed to the ambulance ship, where, by the aid of the boat davits and ready power, they will be carefully raised, swung inboard amidships on the upper deck, whence they will be carried to the elevator on either side and borne’swiftly below to the operat- ing room, where the attention they need will be fully and quickly given them. Pa- tients suffering only from shock or mild injuries need not be taken to the operating room for treatment. on the main deck, Le., low the awning deck, is 18x21 feet square, and will be a marvel of modern surgi convenience. The floor will be tiled, the walls entirely free of woodwork, while the tables and their appointments will sides and an abundance of electric glows feng wd the place with sunshine or its near- 8 Helping the Injured. From the operating room the patients will be carried by the electric elevators to Et 5 a f i PSBEGE? the hospital personnel will be composed of two apothecaries and twelve nurses. Comfortable Accommodations. All the cooking for the officers and crew of the ship will be done up on the upper deck within the central superstructure. On the same deck, too, there will be a steam laundry and a drying room and also two smoking rooms for the convalescents, the forward one being for the enlisted men. -In adcition to the unusually large num- ber of air ports, one being spaced between every two frames, great blowers will draw into the lungs of the craft great draughts of freshness and drive out the tainted atmosphere. An extensive refrigerating plant will provide ice for the feverish and cold water for all the thirsty, while keep- ing fresh the provender for sick and weil. Carefully prepared tanks will hold a con- stant supply of 9,000 gallons of fresh water, and a distilling apparatus, more than equal to the daily demand, will sup- Ply potable water. On the main deck and on the berth deck there will be a diet kitchen for the prep- aration of food for the wounded; and, in all likelihood, either steam or electricity will do all that is needful there. There are comfortable accommodations aft on the berth and the main decks for the cuptain, the executive, four medical officers, a chief enginecr, navigator, an assistant engineer and a paymaster. ‘The extreme hopefalness of the doctors is em- phasized by the absence of a chaplain. The six machinists and six petty officers will be quartered just forward of the com- missioned officers on the berth deck. The captain and the senior officers will mess together. The provision for a dozen nurses assumes the establishment of the naval hospital corps, also recommended so urgently by the surgeon general, and with even a hard- er stress confronting the wounded on ship- board, there is every sound reason for the organization of a val equivalent of the army hospital service. The Army as a: From the Boston Transcript. A contemporary, commenting on the de- mand of the Secretaries of War and Navy for more men for warships and batteries, remarks tkat while the labor market will not feel the drain much, it is a fact that 9 such employment of able-bodied men ie just so much subtracted from the productive forces of the country Considering that the number of men required cannot be much in excess of 3,000, altogether, the drain will be hardly perceptible; Sofflers labor, and are the cause of -mployment of others; for armies must be fed and clothed, ax well as paid. Every year 50,000 men. offer them- selves for enlistment in the army. and re- cruiting officers can pick and choose. The aspirents for enlistment include many bright young Americans—no aliens will be taken now—to whom the milftary career is attractive. i Nor are the inducements in the way of pay offered to be despised by able-bodied young men who would otherwise be em- ployed in civil labor in the lower grades of employment. While the private soldier be- gins his service at $13.4 month, his pay ine creases $1 for every year of faithful serv ice up to the sixth, when it is $18. Ser- geants in the line get as high as $0 a month; in the engineers, ordnance and sig nal corps pay runs at {ts highest, from $9 to $0 a month. To the educated man tn the ranks there is the chance to compete for a commission. The navy pay for men before the mast and petty officers is higher tkan that given in the merchant service. When we consider how much is supplied gratis to the soldiers and sailors in’ the way of food, lodging and medical attend- ance, we can readily see that their pay ccmpares very favorably, for single men. at legst, with the wages given in at least the lower grades of mechanical employment. Many soldiers and sailors, steady, tem- perate, faithful men, lay up money enough during their service to begin a business ca- reer with a considerable capital. ‘This. is especially true in the west. where thrifty privates and “‘non-coms” made good invest- ments in buying land cheap shead of a boom. Here in New England may be found men prospering in civil employment who a few years ago were in the ranks, and star‘ ed in a new career with an honorable dis- charge and a few hundred dollars of sav- ings. Occupation. -———-+ e+ —__ A Terrible Blunder. From the Cleveland Leader. “Hands up!” said the villian with the low brow and the bulldog jaw. “All right, PN put up my hands,” replied the man with the tall forehead and the pale countenance, “but you have evidently made a mistake. I am a newspaper man.” “Here,” said the footpad, tears of pity springing into his eyes, “is a quarter. Don't let this ever become known, or the gang’ll put me back in the amateur class.” = if Ht i [ cf eg i HF li g 4 B E § ne i : f ie i