CORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER 
MAR8H h 
<©itr Jstorn-teller. 
THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON. 
- I c 
CHAPTER I. 
A servant entered the bright, warm and fra- I 
grant library of Clavering Castle, and said: 
“ Any more letters for the post, my lady ?" } 
The lady never looked up from her knitting. t 
The answer cam© from Lord CJavwing, who wm j 
seated at ;i writing-table. "The letter* are ^ 
there"—indicating the place by u nod of a not ( 
very youthful, but yet very handsome head. Still | f 
the lady went on with her knitting. Click, click ! ( 
the little noise marked a great alienee mi ob¬ 
stinate sileneo, a silence of the soul— enforced, i , 
and requiring a strong power for that end; i 
there was a sort of spirit about the dick of the i ^ 
bright pin*, which told very plainly that words } 
would have been plentiful, if words could have 
been of any use. Then the door closed on the j 
servant and the handful of letters, and most vig¬ 
orously even with the vigor of rlc&pcration - , , 
went the knitting pins; and the diamond-ring ( 
on a very pretty little white hand flashed, and a , 
beautiful foot gave a nervous jerk to the foot¬ 
stool, which lilt the fender, and then down came 
the llre-irons all together with a terrible sound: 
and the fair culprit shrieked, and dropped the 
knitting, mid jumped up with a white face and 
eyes full of tears; mid the gentleman rung the 
bell violently, and went to the door, which had 
scarcely closed on the servant, who now re- 
crossed the hall, still with letters in his hand. 
His master took the letters from him, kept 
back one, returned the others, with the words, 
"That. Is all!" and throwing it dexterously into 
the lady's lap-for she had again sat down he 
said;— 
“For heaven's sake, manage it your own way.” 
“ Herbert, it is no use my doing anything. If 
anything is to be done, you must do it!" 
“ And I'll seethe wholeof them at Jericho be¬ 
fore I will do anything." 
"I cannot—I never could—understand this 
continued, tills undying Idea, that, they have of¬ 
fended you." 
“ it is not offense; it is injury. Every Christ¬ 
mas I wrote to his father, and told him why I 
could not have him hero, and said that I bore 
him no malice. 1 did this the first year of my 
coming hero; the year of my father's death, the 
year of our marriage. Now that Richard Hunt- 
ly is dead, I write to his son. Why should not 
I ? What would you do ? " 
"I would ask him hero." 
" How could he enter a house, when the en¬ 
trance to that house was forbidden to his 
father?" 
“Then I would say to him that I was sorry it 
had been forbidden." 
"Which would bo a falsehood." 
“ Make It a truth, then.” 
“ it’s no use being superhuman, Julia.” 
" I can't agroo with you." 
" Then I can only repeat my words—for heav¬ 
en’s sako, manage it your own way." 
" For heaven’s sake, using the words wit h a 
meaning, I coaid do It." 
“How?" 
“I'll show you." 
Lady Clavering wont to the writing-table and 
began to write. Presently she read aloud as 
follows 
"Deaii Mn. IIrNTLY,-I write myself; for I 
can write on what i» to be the subject of tb s 
note more easily than Lord Clavering. 'our 
father and Lord Clavering wore long separated 
—vou must know that; and you probably know 
the cause—It was a cause with which you never 
had any concern. Your father has been dead 
nearly a year. Christmas has almost come. Vtill 
vou join our Christmas gathering, as in former 
years your father always joined it, in his uncle s 
house, though never In his cousins? That, 
cousin, however, will be glad to let old troubles 
die. I hope you will not, by refusing our invi¬ 
tation, decide that they are to live. 
had been disappointed in bis expectation of to England again, the first friend I sought out 
honoy-moon-hsrmonvi for she had fought Mr. was Huntly. At another Christmas gathering, 
Huntly’s battle unasked and unassisted, and en- the last the old earl gave In this place, we met, 
tlroly.o* it seemed, at the suggestion of her own and our boys, and Lady Mary- My father, too- 
etrong common sense and real good-feeling. a perfect specimen of a poor, high-minded gen- , 
"Now, if Richard HuntJy should refuse to tleman. 
„ “Of course, I remember him, interrupted 
“ He has a right to refuse. And be can, 1 /he Lady < layering, 
pleases, I have no anxiety about that," she said. “ There was a girl staying here whom I had 
“It will feel awkward, though." known all her life nearly. Her mother, who 
“Not, at all; the only possible awkwardness was a widow, had always wished me to marry 
has been avoided. It would have been, to say her daughter. Kate Latimer must have been 
the least, awkward to have made Richard Hunt- twenty-five about that time. She had been a 
ly suffer for his father. It is no crime to bo one's mere child when first, the. wish arose In her 
fat bar's son. But I suspect that a discourtesy mother's mind; and her mother had told me 
or an unklndnoss, if persevered In and perpetu- how much she had wished It; how she had even 
alJv repeated, might become some sort of a spoken of it to ray mother, and how well off 
crime • and that possibility I do wish to avoid.” Kate would be with her savings made in that 
"You would shift the crime to Richard’s hope, in addition to wbat she would inherit 
shoulders?” under her father's will. You see, to think Of I 
“Oli no! He has a right to do as he pleases, her for ray second wife was the most natural 
If he does not wish to increase his acquaint- thing in the world. I had in my absence won 
ance he can say so." 1 more glory ihan gold. Fred was beginning to 
“Perhaps he will say that, as I disliked his be expensive, I had nothing to do but to marry; 
father, he refuses to visit mo.” and I made love to Kate under the best possible 
“He may say so. He has his right, and can auspices, and with a certainty of success. She 
feel as ho likes and say what he pleases. I think was very pleasant, very fond of me-shc was, I 
that he can say so without any harm; but I feel know she was," said the gentleman, with 
that It. would iiave been harm If wo bad perpet- 1 energy. ^ ^ 
uated the estrangement. Herbert, what had " I don’t believe it," said Lady Clavering 
you said to him ?” “ Well, then, she was the greatost 
a Botid It/’ ** Nt>i no! Go on. 
She read, and laughed. “ Oh how like a man ! “I made the result sure, os r thought; but 
Oli what .1 new way of keeping Christmas!" what with the dancing, the feasting, the renew- 
Then she read aloud in a voice trembling with als of friendship, and all the good-will of every 
amusement: P°S6ibl« kiud thal flowed Christmas and 
. _ _ . brought In the new year, I really had not had a 
“Sin— Your father and I were first cousins, ,. hance of lUe thlDg . ttod then I got so 
we Sri befriends. I have for twelve years suddenly recalled, that I was obliged to write to 
written to him at this season to sav, that though hcr . 1 wroto to her from myquartcrs. Huntly 
I never desired to see him again, 1 bore him no WJM w j^ m ftr „j he was to return here. I did 
'...I..«* loll U« wl*t «*, contained i I only 
nines* and success, with which my Christmas said to him these words, 1 could swear to the 
communications will naturally cease. If Lady wordrtf _‘ 1 am thinklngof marrying again. Will 
you civ. thin to K«t« l.atlmef ?' Th.inot. »» 
ailments to her. contained in a parcel of gloves which I thought 
Your obedient servant. Ci.AVERlnt, she had won of me. You must rememher 1 was 
“Whv I call It a very good letter,” said his very poor, and Huntly was rich. Well Huntly 
vvny, 1 ■ gave her the pared; and he said, as he put it 
iordsh p ... . irt into her hand, 4 Will you bo my wife, MtesLatl- 
..Then mit°on nii'l'como wltt. mo to mer r She .«...«d. Til tUUik of It/ She 
, 1 . 1 . Y ■«.„ * 1,1 it ourselves " was going up stairs to dress for dinner. This is 
lh lT h ey mere wljhlng to li.o vllloee, I.ody l,» - stiHT, told with overf putlenlnr tome. 
^ISu’on'lm ami to tolh'of 'anythlne thought.' .he repeated, and walked out into the 
analn = .| you know 
dear Mends. I think hi™ «»<»•«*“>-• , , | iad hotter send hack thoitlovs. I 
inv senior. He war. an only son; no was I. He mm. 11 ... 
Clavering station. I think of nothing else. All 
I know Is, we wuet be happy. J- C. 
pliments to her. 
Your obedient servant. 
Ci.aveulng.” 
“ Why, I call It a very good letter,” said his 
lordship testily. 
“ Only mine Is bettor!" she said. 
"Then put on your hat, and come with mo to 
the village—wo will post it ourselves.” 
As they were walking to the village, Lady 
Clavoring resumed the subject. “ Stilly Her¬ 
bert, I never can see bow you arc injured." She 
had an instinct t hat it. was good for her husband 
to talk over the matter. Besides, her own mind 
was full of the subject, and to talk of anything 
else just then would have been difficult. 
“How could any man have been mope grossly 
injured in such a matter? " 
“ Well, hut tell me again, dearest; you know 
I hnve. always fatled to understand." 
‘‘ Huntly and I were friends and cousuie.--^ 
Having read this, she said: 
44 Now add a postscript." 
“ And what am 110 say ? " 
“That, you agree to what I have written.” 
80 Lord C'hivcring took the pen from his wife's 
hand, and wrote: 
“I agree in taking Lady Clavering’s view of 
the matter. If you too accept her guidance, 
you will not. repent, I think—anyhow, not il 1 
can help it." 
44 Very pretty," said his wife ; and she held tip 
her face to be kissed ; and her husband obeyed 
the suggestion with readiness and cordiality. 
“ But It will he a great bore if you always get 
your own way though." 
“ O Herbert., after twelve years! ” 
He could only laugh and kiss her again. 
The truth was, that no woman ever loved her 
own way less than Lady Clavering; but a great I 
puzzle had got Into her life; and an aversion of 
many years* standing on her husband s part was 
making a difficult time of the closely coming 
Christmas. Khe was a very charming woman; 
she was still young, being, in fact, not within six 
months of thirty. She had married Immediately 
oncoming out-the great, match of the season— 
a widower aged thirty-four, with a boy of ten 
years old. This boy was now returning from 
Italy, not intending, however, to spend Christ¬ 
mas at home ; but their two lovely little girls 
were to come back, bringing with them Lady 
Clavering’s mother— in whose house at St. Leon¬ 
ard’s they had been st aying—the next day. 
Lord Clavoring enjoyed nothing more than a 
season of occasional loneliness with this very 
charming wife. They always became, for the 
time, young lovers again. Only this Winter he 
my senior. He was an only son; so was 1 . ne “ 
had married early, being a rich man. and to be t 
a richer; but 1 was a poor man, and then never 
t hinking of riches nor expecting rank. I was a c 
youth, a lieutenant; nnd married poor Clara- 
she w as the prettiest lit He thing. Of course my 5 
father was angry, or disappointed. Ho too, you 1 
know, was in the army, and he had a good ap- 1 
pointment; hut we had not three hundred a 1 
year beyond our earnings between us. Then 
Huntly married. Wiser, richer and older, he did ( « 
the right thing, and the woman was educated, 
plain, sensible, with a fortune. She had half I 
a dozen bridesmaids, and a bishop tied the 
knot, 1 remember she had some wonderful w ay ' 
of doing her hair, and how my poor little Clara 
used to laugh at it. Lord Clavering, my father’s 
first cousin, asked us here to the great custom¬ 
ary Christmas gathering: and the two brides 
met, and Huntly and I. There had been a deal 
of management, to get money enough to buy my 
Clara a white ball-dress, and site had to sew 
holly-loaves on a string to loop up her skirt; 
but, wo were very happy, poor lit t ie pet!" and 
Lord Clavering sighed. 
His w ife pressed his arm lovingly. 4 ‘ I so like 
to hear of h«r," she said; "pray goon. I like 
the way you speak of her very much." 
“My darling," he said, 44 we were not much 
more than boy and girl; hut we loved well. And 
she died without any rude waiving, such as fa¬ 
tigue in India, poverty and a dozen children 
might have given us. She might have suffered 
a great deal in the years or strife that, had to be 1 
lived through, before the death of Lord Claver¬ 
ing and his two sons without children gave the 
title and estates to you and me. But to go on, | 
Hunt ly was prodigiously handsome and rich. 
His well-dowered wife looked down on Clara 
with some condescension, but not. unkindly; j 
Huntly and I were glad to meet. Our insopara- 
hie ways began again; and 1 am sure men have 
seldom felt greater mutual trust than we did. 
We parted, he telling me to apply to him if I 
ever wanted a friend. It was a splendid party 
here. 'Ye may do our best, Julia; but the gray 
hairs are wanting." 
44 Yes," said Lady Clavering, softly; "but we 
giow gray ourselves, Herbert. Go cm, if you 
please. 
“Within a year I had aeon, and I had lost a 
wife. She lived three months after our boy 
was born—Oh, such a beautiful, angelic, child¬ 
like creature ! and she sighed out her life In my 
arms. Then I wrote to Huntly, and made him 
Fred’s guardian, and I went out to India. The 
. first, letter I got in India told me of Mrs. Hunt- 
• ]y's death. Their boy was a few months older 
> than mine. Lady Mary, my aunt, took both 
» ren, and brought them up. When I came 
1 gave In this place, we met, And that night Lord Clavering with a white 
Lady Man - * My father, too— face, said, “ Don't press me too far. Julia. You 
of a poor, high-minded gen- j said some Joking things about that woman— 
I about Mrs. Huntly and her daughter. I can’t 
©member him,” interrupted do that. Do you understahd 1—lhat will never 
tie, that need never be. We can't help feeling 
rl staying here whom I had wounds, though we may forgive the hands that 
e nearly. Her mother, who gave them." 
always wished me to marry She looked up into his face very tearfully, 
ite Latimer must have been “Never mind, dear. Goodnight.” 
that time. She had been a - 
first the wish arose In her CHATTER II. 
ml her mother had f old me Something of the supernatural there certainly 
wished It; how she had even was In Lady Clavering. Then, too, a good geni- 
ly mother, and how well off 1 us had arrived in the person of her mother, Mrs- 
h her savings made in that Beaumont, (Did the space allowed permit of a 
to what she would inherit long parenthesis, it would be placed here in 
; will. You see, to think of I praise of that best and, for her age, most beau- 
1 wife was the most natural I Uful of women.) And certainly two fairies 
. I had In my absence won wore added to the council of peace in the little 
old. Fred was beginning id ladies. Muriel and Anna, who arrived, the per- 
1 nothing to do but to marry; feet Impersonal ion* of love and gladness, with 
i Kate under lho best possible heads and hands full of sweetmeats, lllumi- 
I a certainty of success. She nated let ters, plum-cakes of all sizes, garments 
very fond of me—she was, I of innumerable devices, an Inconceivable varie- 
said the gentleman, with ty of German toys and an alarming selection of 
fireworks. 
it," said Lady Clavering. The young have their rights at Christmas— 
i was the greatost their happy, glorious, undisputed rights. Wo 
bare our heads and how the knoo to child-life. 
> 8 iiIt sure, as I thought; but o Christmas! Come ye young ones, come chlld- 
iclng, the feasting, the renew- hood, como youth. Learn to love, to obey, to 
and all the good-will of every suffer, to endure; learn humility, patience, vir- 
nt followed Christmas and tue; and wo to whom childhood and youth are 
w year, T really had not had a memories—will si rive to make your joys inno- 
the tiling; and then I got so cent and your cares and troubles few. 
, that I was obliged to write to A pure and holy at rnosphere rose about Clav- 
cr from my quarters. Huntly ©ring Castlo at Christina*. Everybody worked 
he was to return here. I did with one heart for one purpose; everybody felt 
,t my note contained; I only that, the smallest things were parts of one great 
c words, 1 could hwcnr to the whole; timl it was not the mere carouse, the 
nking of marrying again. Will jollity, the idleness, the temporary gone-mad- 
ate Latimer?' The note was dish ness, which it. is in some places, but a time 
reel of gloves which I thought when the body and brain arc to rejoice with the 
c. You must remember 1 was goul, which at this great Christmas has so sul> 
jntly was rich. Well Huntly lime a cause for happiness. 
iel; and ho said, as he put it One® a year ail round Clavering Castle the 
iVtll you bo my wife, MiasLatl- people rose, and, as It were, In their hearts cm, 
ered, ‘I’ll think of it.’ 8 bo braced each other with a great affection In hon- 
rato dress for dinner. This la or of this great day; and many and rich .were 
d with every particular to me. the gifts that passed from hand to band, and, 
>or for her to leave the room, beat of all, from heart to heart. Injuries forgiv- 
II tell me what Herbert wiys cn, restitutions made, anger subdued,lli-wlshes 
s?’ She replied, ‘Perhaps.’ changed to good, and jealousios laid aside for- 
e thought?’ ‘When 1 have ever; these were gifts and offerings fit to be 
eated, and walked out into the placed by the side of the gold and frankincense 
— those were t hings not ill-done, nor unlikely 
e her again till they met in the to lie resolved upon,iu the midst of merriment, 
He took her in to dinner. As tolhe sound of music and the Jubilant patter 
ng through the library—you of dancing feet. And some such gifts Lady 
done In this house—lie said. Clavering had determined should pass thiscom- 
ight ?’ And she said, ‘Yes.’ ing day among themselves in this grand old En- 
ho asked. ‘Yes,' she replied glish ancestral home. 
I better send hack the gloves. I The morning came when they thought they 
think.' 80 she did send back the glove*. should hnvo heard from Richard Huntly; but 
“*1 he bet had been, that she would have an there was no letter. It disturbed them. Lord 
offer of marriage within fort y-eight hours.” Clavering had overcome a proud spirit, and cn 
44 She wrote, *1 have lost my bet, in spite of one point, though he disguised t lie fact from 
your nattering note. I have had 1 U'O offers of himself, -an angry heart. Jlut t he evening 
marriage within the prescribed limit, and I am brought them ;t note from Lady Mary, 
engaged to Mr. Huntly. What a merry Christ- “How odd." she wrote, “that you should 
nms it has been—for me!' There was a cool know so little of our movement*!” Bhehadso 
no,,." And Lord C,»veM W looked 
belonged to her:—“Dick is at Dresden. Of 
ire not injured; she could not course 1 am hero. Kate is bo seldom equal to 
and you were married to me.” exertion, that I don’t know what Man - would 
tv,if ifi the best hit of good «1<* without me. My dear Herbert, your wife •' 
, that is t he best ml or gjoo was a Vflry sensible letter, and yours not a bad 
:ho old acres and the old name, postscript. Of course your compliments meant 
Huntly because he was rich; those of the season. As such I accept ttyem. 
“Still "you were not injured; she could not ( 
have loved you; aud you were married to me.” t 
44 My dear one, that is the best hit of good ‘ 
that came with the old acres and the old name. 
But. she married Huntly because he was rich; 
and Huntly took an unfair advantage of me, and 
1 never spoke to him again. In fact, 1 never 
met him; he wont out of life, and I went into 
it. My luck parted ua. He and Kate were re¬ 
ported as being desperately happy. They had a j 
daughter why, that child must bo nearly eight¬ 
een. Lady Mary is forever with them. But I 
lived a horrid lire for five years, I think, and 
hated every body till I loved you. You need 
not look unbelieving. 1 lived a miserable life; 
taking mo oi^t of it was the best t hing for me in 
the world. If I had not been placed suddenly 
where I am, 1 don’t know what might, have be¬ 
come of me. My anger enslaved me. Well, 
after 1 loved you, and we, in our turn, had to 
keep Christmas here, I used to write to Huntly, 
and say I bore htm no ill-will, and wished him 
happy every Christmas. But our lives had 1 
' drifted apart, and I could not wish to see him. 
Now, this year, if his son comes, it will all got 
right. I believe you have made mo do the right 
I thing, Julia." 
“ Only wo ought to have asked Mrs. Huntly.” 
“ Whist, Kate 1" 
| “ Yes; what do we cure tor Kate?” said Lady 
1 Clavoring. “I am sure she ought to come. 
Nov. If Richard Huntly says he will come, we 
will ask 1 1 is step-mother and Mary—fancy her 
being grown-up nearly eighteen, did you say? 
—nnd Lady Mary too. Yes, indeed we will. I 
shall have, our dances done on the most forgive- 
ness-of-injuries principles; wc will sing in our 
hearts, * Begone dull earn!’ to one tune after 
another; we will all embrace In private theatri¬ 
cals, and welcome in the new year to a chorus 
of 4 Hearts and Homes.' Now let us walk back 
to the fairy-bower. 1 don't want to have any 
holly cut there if I can help it." 
That, night Lady Clavoring sent one more let- 
ter to the post. Here It 1 b :— 
I , 
My dear, dear, dear boy Be ready, but don't 
come. When vou get a telegram front mo with 
these words. jHu compliments of the season— 
1 then come, and don't mind money. A special 
1 (rain, if needful. There will be a carriage at the 
those of the season. As such I accept t^em. 
The same to you. 
“ Your affectionate Aunt Mary. 
“ 1*. 8.—I open ids letters when he is away.” 
On the arrival of Mrs. Beaumont it had been 
a sight to see how Muriel aud Ann were re¬ 
ceived by their father. Muriel at ten years of 
age was a wonder of lady-liko pehtleness of 
mind aud propriety of demeanor. She was 
sweet-voloed, fair, timid, small, with great soft 
brown eyes, dark eyelashes and eyebrows, and 
almost golden hair. A beauty to marvel at was 
Lady Muriel. And Anna also was a beauty, 
even at nine years old, to study and admire. 
Painters liked to try their colors on the gipsy¬ 
looking girl, who was as tall as her sister, and 
full of a courage which was seen In action, atti¬ 
tude, quick eye and steady speech. In their 
different ways they worshipped Lord Claveriug; 
and he gave all his attention first to the ono aud 
then to the other, till, seated between them at 
five o’clock tea, It was seen that ho had no life 
or thought for any one else. So Lady Clavering 
left them, and walked upstairs with hermother. 
She walked silently through the great hall, 
where wreaths hung in gav festoons, and lad¬ 
ders were leaned up to the walls, arnl pretty 
faces smiled out. of pictures crowned with mls- 
11( ”Th'e effect of thru crimson damask drapery 
is very wood,' 1 nj-WJ Sirs Beaumont* ** I bo 
in front will warm up the corners; though i 
like corner* to bo a lit! 1<- mysterious too. 
“ Ob, there will be plenty of mystery Doyond— 
there, where the orange trees arc to be; and 
don't talk of mystery. 1 feel quite ill. 
“Nonsense, dear. You never were ill when 
the world of a pood home wanted you to be 
well. The mystery 1 b not of your making- H0« 
thoroughly lovely thl* staircase is! Those mag¬ 
nificent, old mirrors arc grand on the landing, 
- and that full-length, of a King Charles beauty 
hanging between them must have seen her in¬ 
flection in t heir brightness often. I always ffs < 
- as if old historical looking-giasaas—narrow, 
high, placed between wreaths of mintf a uow- 
ers, as those ore— must be, somehow, alive. 1 
t. admire no place ns much as Clavering Lastie. 
1 Am I to be In my usual room?" 
44 Yea, this way; we have had an outer doot 
1 put un. Herbert feared it was too drafty. 
e [Concluded next week. 
L-ept them. 
