THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
473 
IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. 
If I should die to-night. 
My friends would look upon my quiet face 
Before they laid it in its final resting-place. 
And deem that death had left it almost fair; 
And laying snow-white flowers against xny hair. 
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness. 
And fold my hands with lingering caress; 
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night. 
If I should die to-night. 
My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, 
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought; 
Some gentle words the frozen lips had eaid; 
Errands upon which the willing feet had sped; 
The memory of my selfishness and pride. 
My hasty words would all be put aside. 
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. 
If I should die to-night. 
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me. 
Recalling other days remorsefully; 
1 he eye that chilled me with averted glance, 
•Would look upon me aa of yore, perchance, 
And soften in the old familiar way. 
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay ? 
So I might rest forgiven of all to-night. 
0 friends, 1 pray to-night. 
Keep not your kisses for my desd, cold brow— 
The way is lonely, let. me feel them now. 
Think gently of roe; I am travel-worn; 
My faltering feet, are pierced with many a thorn. 
Forgive, 0 hearts estranged ; forgive, I plead 1 
When dreamless rest is mine. I shall not need 
The tenderness for which I long to-night. 
[Exchange. 
0 0 E A. 
Harold was watching closely, but he was none 
the wiser for his scrutiny. Cora’s manner was 
perfectly natural; the viscount’s showed simply 
the courtesy of perfect high breeding, wltUout a 
touch of any deeper feeling. Harold was begin¬ 
ning to breathe more freely; Marianna had been 
mistaken after all. 
They went baok to the drawing-room, and the 
conversation which the young nobleman’s ease of 
manner and knowledge of the world rendered so 
pleasant, went on uninteruptedly over the coffee. 
Then there was some music. Cora sang, and Lord 
Almar e Joined her at tae piano. When the song 
was ended his lordship turned away from the 
piano with a stifled sigh. 
“ I am afraid this must the last of our pleasant 
evenings," h6 3ald. In a regretful tone. “I have 
trespassed on your hospitality too long already, 
Sinclair, and I am so well now, that I have not 
the shadow of an excuse tor remaining any lon¬ 
ger.” 
Harold murmured a few words of polite com¬ 
monplace regrets. 
“ it has been a very pleasant three weeks,” 
went on cord Alrnane. “ And I am Inclined to 
tae very grateful for Sultan's stumble, which gave 
me the pleasure of your friendship.” 
“You are very good,” Harold said, a little 
coldly. 
There was a silence then, which Harold was 
the first to break. 
"You have given us the name of Mends,” he 
said, smiling. "Do we possess enough of the 
privilege of friends to congratulate your lord- 
ship?” 
"On my recovery? Please don’t; I, at least, 
think it a matter of regret.,” replied the Viscount’s 
languid tones. 
" We should do so doubly,” answered Harold, 
courteously. “ No, Lord Alrnane, It Is not on your 
recovery that I congratulate you.” 
“ On what, then ?” 
Lord Alrnane flushed a little as he put the last 
question, and he lilted his head with a slight 
gesture of surprise. Cora, with her little fingers 
still lingering on the keys, turned suddenly round 
from tile piano, and glanced from one to the 
other. 
Harold did not glance at her; but he guessed 
the movement, and the expression of wistful 
wonder and curiosity In her dark eyes. 
" On your approaching marriage,” replied Har¬ 
old, bowing slightly. “You will not think me 
presuming, Lord Alrnane." 
“Certainly not,” replied the Viscount, smiling 
a little, while an expression of bitter annoyance 
passed over his handsome face. " But that aus¬ 
picious event has been public so long now, that 
the shower of congratulations which assailed me 
at the Mme has loDg ceased to fall. It Is not pos¬ 
sible that you are only now aware of it?” he went 
on, questlonlngly. 
" It came to my knowledge this afternoon only," 
answered Harold, quietly, dreading to look at bis 
sister lest he should see the confirmation of his 
fears upon her face, but almost unable to terrain 
from doing so: “ therefore, It my congratulations 
are tardy, they are none the less sincere, Lord Al- 
mane.” 
"You are very good," hts lordship said, a trifle 
haughtily. " Will you give us something else, 
Miss Sinclair, If you are not tired?" 
Cora had listened to the short dialogue as one 
In a dream. At Ursl she fancied her ears had de¬ 
ceived her; but when the reality forced itself 
upon her, there came a sudden, sharp pang of 
agony, under which her face paled and her 
hands shook. But one moment brought pride to 
her help, and Inexperienced as she was, and un¬ 
used to control her feelings, she knew that the 
wound must bo concealed and hidden from all 
eyes, most or all rrom the eyes of the man who 
had deceived her. 
She did not speak, however—she dared not trust n 
her voice to do that—hut she turned to the piano t 
again, and played a mad waltz with as much en~ t 
train as though she were In her wildest spirits. t 
“ Does not that make you want a wairz, Hal?" j 
she said, as she finished, and whirled herself i 
round, with crimson cheeks and glittering eyes. 
“ Should you not like one ?” t 
"I almost think 1 should, little stater," said i 
Harold, laughing, and feeling quite relieved from l 
his anxiety about her. * 
T,ord Alrnane, from his srm-cbatr, noted the ra- I 
dlant face, and understood It more correctly. lie 
sat In utter silence without altering bis position \ 
for some minutes, but as Harold took his s'ster’s 
place at the pln.no be rose, and moved first to a 
window, then to Cora’s side, as she sat in a low 
chair at some distance from the piano. 
As he drew near the girl lifted her eyes to his, 
full of an unspoken passion and reproach. 
" Do not-condemn me unheard,” he murmured, 
bending over her tor a moment. " Cora, let me 
plead my cause wtth you. I cannot let you think 
me as guilty as I appear. Nay, I will speak. I 
have a right, and you must give me the opportu¬ 
nity." 
"Must!” she answered, haughtily, rising and 
movlDg away with a. qoeen-ltke gesture of offend¬ 
ed dignity, which, while It made Lord Alrnane 
smile, increased the passion her beauty had ex¬ 
cited. 
"Yes, must,” he answered. In low, impressive 
tones, under cover of Harold s chords, which were 
quite fortissimo. “ My love for you gives me the 
right to insist.” 
Her lip curled, brt the little hands were begin¬ 
ning to tremble. Cora’s pride was failin'? her; 
and Lord Alrnane, seeing his advantage, pursued 
it. 
" I claim the right,” he said. " You mast hear 
me, Cora,” and his voice sank to the lowest whis¬ 
per. “I love you I If I loved you less I would 
not stoop to plead, but. loving you as I do I must 
Justify myself. I cannot let you think of me with 
contempt. Cora you will hear me ?” 
The pleading. Impassioned tones thrilled the 
girl, and her pride gave way. 
•• When ? Now ?" she faltered. 
“ Meet me to-night under the elm at the end of 
the garden. There Is no danger of discovery," 
he said eagerly. Then, seeing her hesitation, 
be went on: "I shall have no opportunity of 
seeing you alone otherwise. Cora, do not. be 
hard." 
Cora hesitated; her heart urged her to accede 
to his request, but her loyalty to Harold made her 
refuse. 
“ No,” she said, quietly; “ I will not come.” 
He turned from her then, not with any re¬ 
proach or anger, but an Intense sorrow and re¬ 
proach on his face, and a look In his eyes which 
went to her heart, so grieved and pained and yet 
so loving. 
He went back to his seat and sat In silence, 
resting his head on his hands In an attitude of 
dejection and weariness which made Harold, as 
he rose from the piano, ask If his arm were 
painful. 
" Thank you, no,” replied the Viscount. " What 
makes you think so?" 
"Your face," answered Harold, with a smile 
which Lord Alrnane returned. 
"I’ve been a little bothered about some news 
fromtowu,” he said. “One cannot be exempt 
from trouble here below, Sinclair.” 
**It anyone might, expect to be, you might I 
should think," Harold remarked, laughingly. 
" You Judge by appearances,” answered the 
i Viscount, half sadly. “ You are strangely mis¬ 
taken.” 
He rose as he spoke and they separated for the 
night; but as he held Cora’s hand for a moment 
In his, Bbe said, quickly, In a low tone: 
" I will come.” 
A flash of joy lighted the handsome, weary 
. face. 
. " Midnight, under the elm,” he whispered, and 
then he released her hand, and held his own out 
i lo Harold as cordially aud as heartily as though 
he were not trying to rob him of his greatest 
1 treasure. 
It was a still, calm night, cold as most spring 
nights are In England, wit h a deep blue starlit 
sky overhead, a fitting vault for the solemn stLl- 
, ness which reigned around. 
Lord Alrnane was pacing up and down with 
slow, noiseless steps, waiting for Cora, and as the 
, half hour after midnight chimed from the neigh¬ 
boring church tower, he began to fear that she 
, would not come. 
, "Shewill not come,” he said; "she does not 
trust me fully; she will not come, and I am an 
; Idiot to care. I wonder what there is about this 
girl which fascinates me so strangely. I almost 
> think l love her a little!” and then he laughed 
i mockingly, but with an uneasy consciousness 
j that he was not quite so indifferent as to Cora's 
feelings towards him aa he had been on any pre- 
s vlous similar occasion. 
"She is very beautiful, he mused, "but not 
more so than Helen St. Maur, or that little co- 
j quette, Ellse de L’Eslang; and I never doubted 
or eared about them. What fascination can this 
girl exercise Over me? 1 think I care more for 
i winning her than I have ever done before in my 
. life for anything. I wish she were In a different 
C position; she would make a charming Vtscount- 
t ess Alrnane.” 
f He smiled as he pictured to himself Cora In 
, stately, shimmering robes, presiding at his table, 
. wtth that fresh vivacity and charm of hers, or re- 
i celvlng his guests with that simple high-bred 
1 courtesy and grace of manner which dlstlngulsh- 
> ed both her and Harold. 
" She would be as beautiful as a fairy queen In 
my mother’s diamonds,” he thought, as his eyes t 
brightened and softened Into tenderness over the a 
fair picture; and he sighed a little, as he added 
to himself, “I wish I could afford the luxury of a a 
penniless wife, I almost thlnlc I should commit t 
myself.” s 
A soft, swift footfall sounded near him; he t 
turned quickly, and saw Cora coming rapidly to- > 
wards him. He went forward a few steps to meet 1 
her, and taking her hands In his, he led her ten- i 
deily to the rustic seat under the elm tree, and i 
gently made her sit down. 
The girl’s face was very while; her eyes were 1 
glittering with fear and excitement, and he felt 
the little hands In hts tremble. 
" My poor little love," he said, with an exquis¬ 
ite tenderness of Intonation, which soothed the 
excited girl. “ How can I thank you?” 
"I am so frightened,” she whispered, as she 
clung to him. “ It ts so wrong—so wicked, to de¬ 
ceive Harold thus.” 
" Nay, do not tremble my dearest, you are safe 
now," he said soothingly. 
For a moment she sat, thus, resting against him, 
and suffering him to hold her hands, as he mur¬ 
mured his tender words; then remembering she 
withdrew her hands, and raised herself from her 
reclining posture, calm and quiet, waiting for 
his explanation. 
The Viscount sighed heavily as he saw her 
movement. 
" You do not. trust me. Cora,” he said, sadly 
“ Well, It may be that I have deserved that mis¬ 
trust at your hands. You will say that I have 
deceived you. it may be so, but my child, l did 
not do It wilfully. You must remember that the 
fact of my engagement Is so generally known, 
that I did not suppose for a moment that you were 
unaware of It.” 
"Iam sorry you thought so basely of me,’’ 
broke In Cora, passionately. 
“ Basely of you,” he repeated. " Heaven knows 
how I have thought or you, my child; with what 
reverence and with what love." 
“lfltbeso;”she answered, simply, “why did 
you deceive me so cruelly ? Why did you let me 
love you, let me think you loved me when you 
were bound to another? Why did you pre¬ 
tend-" 
"Hush!” he said passionately. “Child, you 
don’t know your power,—vour beauty—or you 
would not speak thus. How could 1 help loving 
you?” 
Cora laughed bitterly and scornfully. 
"It was easy to deceive me," she said. “I 
trusted you.” 
“ Cora," he said, in the same tone of passionate 
pain, “ you are cruel; do not add to the misery I 
am eudurlDg by jour reproaches.” 
She was silenced. The viscount’s histrionic 
powers were of the highest order, and he was 
■ sufficiently In earnest now to act well. He 
paced up and down the green sward for a min¬ 
ute or two, and then resumed his seat by her 
■ side. 
i " Do not let me waste these few precious mo- 
> ments,” be said, sadly. " I want you to under¬ 
stand that If 1 make you suffer, Cora, I suffer ten 
■ tunes more, and that 1 would give my life to save 
you one pang. Was It possible not to love you 
. when 1 saw yon first, and you clung tome help¬ 
less, lo the crowd ? Was It possible, 1 say, when 1 
5 came to know you better, to resist my heart’s 
U first Impulse towards you? Although 1 knew, but 
too well, that my love must bring me misery aud 
1 suffering, 1 loved you from the first moment I 
saw you. I loved you as my lire." 
» lie half turned away from her, and bowed Ills 
- head upon his hand. 
Cora was trembling. The momentary anger 
5 had passed away. She was a woman and young, 
t She loved him, too, with the first passionate In¬ 
fatuation of her hitherto untouched heart. She 
turned to him gently, and put her little unsteady 
j hand on his. 
CHAPTER VL 
LOKD ALMANE8 STORT. 
For a few moments neither Lord Alrnane nor 
Cora moved nor spoke; then he turned to her, 
and caught her hands In his, pressing them pas¬ 
sionately to his Ups and brow. 
"Let me tell you all,” he said, in a hoarse, 
broken voice. "You will pity and forgive me 
then." 
Sitting thus with her hands held In hta, the 
passionate dark eyes fixed on her lace, Cora list¬ 
ened. 
•* You thought very hardly of me this evening, 
Cora," he began, “ when your brother congratu¬ 
lated me on my engagement—when he congratu¬ 
lated me on that which hangs like a millstone 
about my neck, and puts away from me all that 
would make life bright and precious. You may 
say that I am a free agent—that no one could 
hurry or force me Into an engagement against 
my wish; but, my child, there are circumstances 
sometimes, which bind one closer tbaB chains, 
under which a man la no more tree to follow his 
own wishes than the captive In his dungeon. 
It was under such circumstances as these that 
my engagement was contracted. Lucie Belmont 
Is my cousin, her mother and mine were sisters, 
and I have known aud been lutlmato with her 
from her childhood and my early manhood. She 
is an orphan, and was brought up at Alrnane Hark 
by my mother, whose dearest wish was that Lucie 
and 1 should be Joined In a nearer, closer tic than 
that Of couslnshlp. Still, it rarely happens that 
one fails in love with a girl one has known as in¬ 
timately as I have known Lucie. 1 always looked 
upon her as a sister, and cared for her as such, 
with the quiet fraternal affection which never 
deepens Into any warm feeling, which could never 
possess the warmth and passion of the love l feei 
for yon, my beautiful darling, Nay, don’t turn 
away; listen yet a little while, dear child. 
“ My father died,” resumed the viHoount, after 
a pause, “ while I was a little child. \ty mother, 
my dear mother, left me when 1 was nineteen 
and Lucie about ten. After her death Lucie went 
to reside with some connections of her father’s 
and 1 went abroad. When I returned, after a 
long absence, l found that the girl I had left a 
child had blossomed Into a woman, fair enough 
and gentle. The old Intimacy was renewed be¬ 
tween us. Lucie was presented three years ago, 
and since we have met often In the world, and 
have been Intimate as brother and sister might 
be. Sometimes I wondered why my cousin did 
not marry; but last winter the reason for her 
persistent refusals became known to me. She 
seemed 111 aud unhappy, and any questioning on 
my part only elicited a passion of tears, and an 
avoidance which I was at, a loss to account for. I 
found out the reason almost too soon. Cora, can 
you guess the rest ?” 
Cora’s eyes were very soft and pitiful now. 
AH the, angry fire had died away, quenched In 
the dew of the large tears which welled cp Into 
the sweet eyes, and fell heavily on his hand as It 
clasped hers. 
" Have you guessed it,, my darling ?” he went 
on softly. “ Are you sorry for her, or for me ? 
Ah ! my child, I want that, pity most, although I 
never knew that 1 should need It as 1 do now. One 
day her aunt, Lady Mar'yn sent for me, and told 
me that my cousin loved me —that her only 
chaDce of recovery of health and splrltsdepended 
upon me. upon my love. Ah! Cora, had I known 
then, 1 think the sacrifice would have been too 
great, beyond my strength. But I was fond of the 
poor child. I phled her—I cared for no one else— 
and I yielded—yielded, to find myself bound when 
1 would he free—yielded, to find that I had put 
out of my reach all happiness and peace of mind, 
that I had given np the freedom In which l re¬ 
joiced, and obtained nothing In exchange. Noth¬ 
ing,” he ended, passionately—" nothing but mis¬ 
ery and unrest.” 
He dropped Cora’s hands, and, turning from 
her, rose and movid away a few paces; then, 
turning to her side, he went on again ; 
"Am I forgiven, Cora,” he said, pleadingly. 
“The temptation was so strong, how could 1 do 
aught but, yield ? You were so beautiful and so 
gentle how could 1 do aught but love you? I was 
an idiot—mad. If you wUl—to risk the danger, to 
play with edged tools. I was road, but. I suffer. I 
wish I alone could suffer, and yet 1 am selfish 
enough to be glad you cure a little." 
A little! when the girlish frame was shaken 
with a storm of sobs. He caught her In hl3 arms, 
and with Increased earnestness went on: 
"Ah! child, you are so young; you will forget 
—you will be happy again; but I, with naught to 
j look forward to In the future, cannot hope to do 
so. I shall hear of you bappv, beloved, and lov- 
lDg, united to a man who will care for you—ah! 
not more than 1 should have done—and 1 shall 
think * she Is happy, she has forgotten,’ while I—” 
She had bowed her head upon his shoulder, and 
was sobbing passionately. Stanley St. Roger felt 
. the perfumed breath upon his cheek, the clluglng 
, clasp of the little burning hands, as he held her 
within his arm; and he knew that she was suffer- 
I ing, but he had no pity. He must keep the love 
j he had won—the heart he had touched must be 
• his. At whatever cost to her, his selfish passion 
\ should be gratified, end for that purpose they 
must part now. since parting was unavoidable- 
must part friends, with the f sctnatlon still upon 
. her, with the spell of his beauty, or his eloquence, 
3 of his singular charm or manner, yet, unbroken. 
r Holding her to his breast, he soothed the pas¬ 
sionate emotion with tender, murmuring words, 
’ spoken in the low, sweet voice which was so plea..- 
8 ant. to her. For a tew moments she stood thus, 
j yielding to the magic of his touch. 
“ Am 1 forgiven 7" he whispered then. “ Have 
you forgiven me, Cora?” 
She withdrew herself slowly from his arms, 
calmer now, and struggling to regain her compo- 
r sure. 
•, “ There can be no talk of forgiveness between 
l us,” she said, gently. •• L"t us try rutbtr to for¬ 
get. She loves you, and you are bound to her. 
Make her Uappy.andhHppln.sswUlcometoyour- 
e self in the effort. Let us forget all that has pass¬ 
ed, and should we meet again, let It he as Mends.” 
e “I could not meet y ou a s a friend, ” he said, pas- 
r slonatcly. 
"Then we must never meet again,” was the 
■, low reply. " Let It be farewell now, Lord Alrnane, 
! and remember that you have no rrlend who wishes 
- for your happiness more than I do.” 
e "Are you going thus?” he said, as besank upon 
t one knee at her feet and held her hands in his. 
y “ Lord Alrnane,” answered the girl, steadily, 
d although she was trembling, " If, la the past, 
$ when 1 allowed you to speak words of love to me 
a I erred, it was in Ignorance. Now, were I to do 
i, so, knowing the ties which bind you to another, 
8 I should be indeed to blame. For any wrong I 
i. have done, I am expiating bitterly now,” she 
,t went on, with a caught breath. “ It Is hardly my 
t place to blame you for ujiy suffering you have 
^ made me endure. I do not, Stanley, I do not. I 
r deserved It all; but, at least, let it be the guilty 
e alone who suffer, not the Innocent girl to whom 
k you arc eugaged." 
o " Is all your thought for her ?” he said, bitterly 
a and reproachfully, still holding her hands which 
t struggled to free themselves from his grasp. "All 
y 0 ur pity for Luele? Do you uot think I suffer, 
d Cora ?” 
i, "What can I do?” she answered brokenly 
r •• Stanley, be generous ; do uot tempt me too far. 
r Ah ! you are using your power cruelly now. Let 
1 me go I say,” she continued, wtth a sudden pas- 
