THE RURAL. NEW-YORKER. 
365 
fitcrar]) llttsrcllait]), 
THE DROVE. 
Suggested by Eneking’s Picture. 
EABX, MAUULE. 
TuE/lrove of caltlo slowly wends 
Its way the country road along, 
Beneath a sky that o’er them bends. 
Inspiring monodies of song, 
In keeping with the sober guise 
That nature in her woody deeps 
Wears, losing all her gaudy dyes 
As with the ettutnox she weeps. 
What deep contentment in the group 
That in the waters stand hoof deep. 
Unmindful of the lash or whoop ! 
What joy in this young creature’s leap ! 
And yonder oue. with head erect. 
And ears set forward, fain would know 
What from this stir she may expert; 
And on, with sturdy move aud slow, 
Come others, while against the sky 
A horseman rides in silhouette. 
Whose fazy motions beem to vie 
With cattle's moods, that naught may fret. 
The footman, too, with measured stride 
The mastiff, with himself content. 
And with bis charge unite satisfied— 
All with the. scone arc merged and blent. 
And so lire opens to our vi* w 
A sylvan scene, not once, but oft, 
Where everything a blending hue. 
Assumes beneath an air so soft. 
And bland Unit thoughts of strife aud toil 
Aud strong off nets that passion gives, 
Aud fierce theatrical turmoil, 
Are lost in life that dreams, not lives. 
For is the life that dreams less true 
Thau that which lives its lurid truths ? 
Are autumn's skies of ghostly hue 
Less true than those of May’s aud youth’s ? 
The strong effects of youthful days 
Have not their lessons truly taught 
If ago loves not to rest its gaze 
On scenes with peace aud quiet fraught. 
[Transcript. 
-« « • 
OORA. 
CHAPTER XXI. 
On t he Sa ids. 
Cora’s shrill cry of terror, ringing as It did 
through the railway station, struck upon her 
husband’s oar aud heart with a sudden and sharp 
pang. He had trusted her, notwithstanding the 
grave causes she had given him for doubt, and 
his trust had boon betrayed—basely betrayed. 
Could It be really Cora whom he found alone, fly¬ 
ing from Paris in the company of Lord Almane— 
renouncing her good name, her claim to the re¬ 
spect of her equals aud Inferlois, committing a 
grave and dreadful sin for the love which she 
ought to have striven to put away from her at 
whatever struggle, whatever cost ? 
It was solely by chance that he found himself at 
the station; ho was traveling In the express from 
Boulogne back to Paris, having telegraphed to 
Cora, and the up tralu like the down, stopping at 
Amiens, had allowed him a few moments to ob¬ 
tain some refreshment, and—intercept the fugi¬ 
tives. 
It was a terrible blow to him, the conviction 
thus forced upon him of his wife's unworlhlness, 
and he staggered under the stroke like a drunken 
man; and the thought that death Itself were 
preferable to such misery, beat Itself Into his 
brain. 
Lord Almane stood still, and made no move¬ 
ment towards sir Alan, neither did he bend over 
Cora, but his face was almost as Uvldly pale as 
sir Alan’s own, and his lips were compressed and 
firm. 
Both stood thus motionless for a few seconds; 
Cora lying prostrate at their feet. Then some of 
the ladles who had alighted rrom the train, came 
rushing up with /lacuna, eau-de-Cologne, vinai¬ 
grettes, and offers of assistance, which roused 
sir Alan from his momentary stupor. 
Stooping over Cora, he lifted her In his arms as 
easily as If she had been a child ; said a few cold 
words to the Viscount, who answered them with 
a slight, bow, and strode away, with his wife’s 
pale, beautiful face lying upon his breast. 
“ Take me to the nearest hotel or ouberge," he 
said, quietly, to a porter, and the man led him 
out of the station Into the road, and pointed him 
to a small white house by t,be roadside. 
“ .Monsieur will have to hurry," he said. “ He 
has about a quarter of an hour before the train 
starts. But a quarter of an hour.’’ 
Alan strode into tbo little Inn, and demanded 
a bedroom; then he followed the hostess up¬ 
stairs, stall carrying bts motionless burden, and 
when they reached the room, he laid hla wife 
down upon the bed, standing for a moment look¬ 
ing down at her lovely face. It looked almost 
like the r ,ee or a dead person In its terrible pal¬ 
lor, and Sir Alan saw the alteration a few days 
had made. Her hat had fallen off, the masses of 
beautiful hair had become unloosened, and stray¬ 
ed over the pillow : and her little hands lay help¬ 
lessly at her side, With an uncontrollable im¬ 
pulse, he bent over her, aud touched the sweet, 
cold mouth with hts bearded tips, In oue sudden, 
passionate kiss; then he turned away, and, giv¬ 
ing some rapid directions to the hostess, left the 
Inn, and made his way back to the station, Just In 
time to re-enter the train. 
He saw that Lord Almane was already seated, 
and as he himself entered the adjoining com- 
partraeut, he stooped mechanically, aud picked 
up something white which lay upon the carpet 
at his feet, then he threw himself down In a scat 
heedless—perhaps unconscious—that he was 
alone, as the tralu started again, and sped away 
—away from Amiens—away from Cora—away 
from his erring, but still dearly-loved wife. 
When the first bitterness was over, he began 
to consider what his movements would be on ar¬ 
riving at Boulogne. He remembered that when 
there during the day, he had met an old college 
friend on the quay, to whom he must apply at 
once on arrival to entreat him to stand his friend 
In the duel, which he had resolved should take 
place with Lord Almane. lie knew Gilbert Arley 
sufficiently well to rely upon hts friendship In 
the matter, and If Lord Almano had no friend or 
acquaintance In Boulogne from whom he could 
ask a similar favor, doubtless Arley could And 
him a second. 
No doubt, also, that In the early dawn, along 
the coast, they could flnd a spot sufficiently re¬ 
tired for their purpose, and when It was over If 
unhurt, he would return at once to Amiens and 
arrange a private but complete separation from 
Cora. He would not see her after It; but If It were 
possible he would prevent any further possibility 
ot ruin to her. But If he fell, what of her ?— 
what of their child? Would she marry Lord 
Almane ? and would Harold learn to think of him 
as hts father—this man who had Injured him so 
cruelly 7 No, no—a thousand times no; be should 
have no power over his son, even if Cora became 
hts wife; and taking out bis pocket-book, he 
wrote a few hasty lines, appointing ;hls mother 
guardian absolutely to Harold. 
“ Cora will respect my wishes so far,” he said 
to himself, with a faint, sad smile. “So far; and 
she may not care tor him when I am gone.” 
Tho train slopped at Boulogne, and Sir Alan 
alighted, meeting Lord Almane face to face as he 
did so. 
“ I have a friend staying hero,” Bald the Vis¬ 
count, haughtily. 11 It Is late, or rather early, 
but not too late or ioo early to receive visitors! 
twill go to the “ Hotel lies Bains” and request 
sir Harry Bartlet to meet your second here, Sir 
Alan. It will be more prudent than going to a 
hotel.” 
Sir Alan bowed slightly, and then both men 
drove off—the one to the “ Hotel des Bains,” the 
other to the " Hotel Royal," where CapLaln Arley 
was staying. Gilbert Arley’s astonishment was 
profound when he saw his visitor. He was not 
yet undressed, having but Just returned from a 
dinner-party, and, on hearing sir Alan’s mission, 
threw on an overcoat, and drove back with him. 
" By the way, old fellow,” he said, as they quit¬ 
ted the hotel, “ who Is your adversary ? Almane! 
By Mars and Bellona!” and he showed some con¬ 
cern, "he is a formidable one. First-rate shot. 
Must you right ? Cannot It be arranged 7 ” 
“There Is no alternative,” answered Sir Alan, 
quietly. “It. must be done, and. If possible, get 
It over at onae. In ease of my death, take this 
note to my mother. I cannot find words to thank 
you, Arley.” 
“ I am glad of It," he answered, trying to smile. 
“ But, Vincent, It Is hardly fair of you to risk your 
life so foolishly.” 
“ You would not speak thus If you know all,” 
said sir Alan. “Hero we are, Arley. “That Is 
laird Almane, and I auppose the other man is sir 
Harry Bartlet.” 
Captain Arley and Sir Harry exchanged bows, 
aud moving away together, paced up and down 
slowly before the station, while Sir Alan leaned 
moodily over the bridge and thought of Cora, and 
Lord Almane smoked two or three cigarettes, 
lighting them with Impatient hand, hair smoking, 
and then throwing them away, as If they were 
distasteful to him. 
In about, a quarter ot an hour, Gilbert Arley re¬ 
turned to Sir Alan, and passing his arm through 
Ills, led him away towards the hotel. 
“Come and take a couple of hours rest,” he 
said. “ We are to meet at Andresselles at dawn, 
so you will have time. It will do you good, old 
fellow. You have travelled all day and all night, 
remember.” 
More In order to please his friend, than for any 
rest, sir Alau threw hlmselt on a couch and tried 
to catch a little sleep. But he was far too excited 
and miserable te succeed In getting any repose, 
and It was a relief when Gilbert Arley otuue to 
tell him that the carriage was waiting, and It 
was time to start. 
Very still and silent were the streets as they 
drove on. the cliffs rose to their quiet, grand sol¬ 
emnity beside them ou the one hand; on the 
other stretched t.lie sea, calm and still, dotted 
here and there by a passing sail. They drove 
past Andresselles, then leaving the carriage, aud 
bidding the man wait, they strolled on to the 
sands, find found a sheltered hollow, admirably 
suited for their purpose. 
A very few minutes elapsed before Lord Almane 
and 81r liarry arrived, aud while the seconds 
were finishing the last preliminaries the Viscount 
approached his opponent. 
“ sir Allan," he said, gravely, “ It may seem 
absurd that I should try to Justify Lady Vincent 
to you; but I assure you, on my honor as a 
gentleman, that It was almost entirely by clianee 
that we were fellow-tmvelera last night." 
“ It la rather too late for any explanation,” said 
the baronet, haughtily, raising hts stately head 
and looking Lord Almane full lu the face with 
his sad, proud gray eyes. “The score 1 wish to 
settle now Is not merely an account of last night’s 
business. No,” he went on, raising his hand to 
enforce silence; “your lordship need not trouble 
youiseir any further.” 
Lord Almane bit hts Up as ho turned away, and 
went forward to place himself where Sir Harry 
desired, in another minute all was ready, and 
these two men stood facing each other, under the 
cool, gray morning skies—deadly enemies, foes to 
the death. 
Both were very pale, but while .Sir Alan's face 
was sternly and proudly set, the Viscount’s hand¬ 
some features wore an expression of irresolution 
and hesitation which rather surprised Sir Harry 
Bartlet. Gilbert Arley’s face was the saddest of 
the four; he had seen Cora Vincent several rimes, 
and In the happy rime which followed her mar¬ 
riage; and remembering the deep love she had 
evinced for her husband, he thought of her grief, 
If anything turned out badly for Sir Alan. 
Strangely enough, he did not connect her with 
the duel, for the Vincents’ conjugal feUclty was 
well known, and more than one gay young bache¬ 
lor had onvled sir Alan h!s fair wire, while many 
a Benedict had wished for the perfect understand¬ 
ing which existed between him and Cora. 
There was a momentary pause before tbe signal 
was given, and then, simultaneously breaking on 
the stillness around, rose two sharp reports, 
which disturbed the sea-gulls, who were lazily 
moving their wings over the surface ot the water. 
Both seconds ran forward, but neither Lord Al¬ 
mane nor Sir Alan staggered or seemed hurt. 
The latter had missed his aim, the former had 
fired Into the air. Deeply as he haled his adver¬ 
sary, he felt, that he had Injured him enough; 
and though Sir Alan’s eyes flashed at the thought 
of such a conclusion to the meeting, no was 
obliged to accept bis friend’s decision, and ac¬ 
knowledge himself satisfied. 
While Captain Arley was assisting sir Harry 
Bartlet to put the pistols Into their case and ex¬ 
changing a few congratulatory remarks as to the 
result of the hasty duel, Lord Almane approached 
his adversary. 
“ Whatl have told you is the truth, Sir Alan,” 
his lordship said, quietly, but earnestly. “Our 
meeting last night—Lady Cora’s and mine—was 
a chance; she will doubtless explain all to you. 
It would be useless to deny that 1 love her. 1 
loved her before you met her, and my affection 
was returned; but—no, hear me out—I was de¬ 
ceived as to her feelings towards you, and I give 
you my word of honor that 1 will never willingly 
see her again.” 
He raised hla hat with courtly aDd ceremonious 
politeness, and rejoined his h’lend, leaving Sir 
Alan with a dark frown upon his brow, and an 
angry sneer upon his lip, looking away over the 
water with ilcrcc pain, and unsubdued sorrow In 
his gray eyes. 
The drive back to the “ Hotel Royal ” was ac¬ 
complished in almost unbroken silence. Avoid 
them as he would, Lord Almane’s words rang In 
his ears. “A chance meeting!” Over and over 
again lie repeated them to himself, trying to 
realise whether they could be true or not. He 
had telegraphed to his wife; but doubtless the 
telegram had reached tbe hotel after she had 
left It.. No: It was Impossible; sUe had Intended 
to fly with the Viscount, otherwise why, when 
they met at Amiens, had she uttered that terrible 
heart-stricken cry and fallen at hts feet as one 
dead ? Was not tne fear she showed a proof that 
she was guilty ? If she were innocent, why was 
she terrified ? “A chance meeting!” 
It was impossible. Lord Almane landed he 
could betray and befool him yet more. How he 
hated the man I How he writhed at the Idea 
that he had refused to tire at him! If he had 
alined at him, and shot him, It would have been 
the greatest kindness ne could have done him. 
Captain Arley did not disturb his reverie. 
Gian png now and then at the gloomy, mournful 
irse«6ial<le him, he wondered ; but said nothing 
untff .Sir Alan turned to him with a smile, so sad 
and mournful that the young officer felt a chok- 
lug sensation at his throat. 
“Are you wondering at all this?" said sir 
Alan. “ It is an old debt, Arley. Would that he 
had let me pay It. How can I thank you for 
your generous assistance and friendship ?” 
“No thanks are needed,” was the answer. “I 
am heartily glad It Is satisfactorily over. Think 
of Lady Cora s grief,” he went on, *• if anything 
had happened to yon, Vincent." 
A shudder passed through the stalwart frame 
of Alan; but he made no reply, and they again 
relapsed into silence. 
After breakfast, having ascertained the hours 
of departure of Paris trains, and flndlng there 
was one lu the afternoon which would take Sir 
Alan to Amiens about dusk. Captain Arley per¬ 
suaded him to tako a few hours’ sleep ; but any 
kind of inaction was impossible to Sir Alan, and 
he paced restlessly up and down the room until 
he was utterly weary. 
Gilbert went with him to the station, and saw 
him oil', watching the pale, stern face as the 
train started, with Intense pity; and when Sir 
Alan could no longer see the bright, rrank face 
of the young man who had stood his friend, he 
threw himself back In the carriage. He was not 
alone this time; two or three French ladles were 
In the compartment, and they glanced curiously 
at the handsome, mournful-looking Englishman, 
who had not a thought or a glance to give their 
pretty, perfectly-dressed selves. 
After awhile, sir Alan took out his pocket-book, 
In order to destroy the letter he had written to his 
mother. Vs he did so, a white paper fluttered out 
with It, aud tne baronet stooped carelessly to pick 
it up. One glance at it, however, changed his In¬ 
difference into eager attention as he recognised 
the handwriting, it was a note to Lord Almane, 
and ran thus: 
“ I am tired or my misery and degradation. The 
love and shelter you offer I will accept. 1 will 
meet you to-night at the station, and we can 
leave Parts together.” 
A few lines truly; but how much they con¬ 
tained I 
Sir Alan sat gazing on them thunderstruck. 
Ills last faint nope raised by Lord Almane’s 
earnest and apparently truthful words was de¬ 
stroyed. 
It was not a chance meeting. The Viscount 
was false to the core, and It was this man, deceit¬ 
ful, base, treacherous, whom Cora loved. 
CHAPTER XXII. 
A One-Sided Explanation. 
When Cora’s senses returned, the dawn was 
breaking In the eastern sky and a glimmer of 
sunlight was stealing Into the room where she 
lay. Her eyes wandered over the apartment 
without seeing In It one familiar object, it was 
a bedroom hung with gaily-flowered chintz, and 
scrupulously clean; there were colored pictures 
on the walls, and from the window she could see 
the green foliage of lofty trees. 
For a few moments she lay trying to recall 
where she was, and when recollection returned, 
a faint cry broke from her which brought to the 
bedside a woman who had been sitting at the 
window, busily knitting. Sbe was a cleanly, mtd- 
dle-agcrt woman, with pleasant, homely features 
and quick, dark eyes, wearing a print dress, a 
white apron and a snowy cap. 
“ Madame foels horself better,” she cried 
pleasantly. In French. 
“ Yes, yes, I am better. Who brought me 
here ?’’ And Cora tried to sit up, but fell back on 
the pillows, giddy and exhausted, 
“Madame fainted at the pare,” said the woman, 
gently; “ and monsieur, the tall gentleman, her 
husband, carried her here. But madame must 
not stir until the doctor comes, or she may make 
herself seriously 111.” 
Cora turned from her, and hid her face on her 
pillows to conceal the the tears which flowed un¬ 
restrainedly. 
After a few minutes the woman approached 
her again. 
“ Would madame allow me to assist her to un¬ 
dress 7” she said, In her gentle tones. “ She will 
be more comfortable If she goes to bed.” 
Cora was too weak for any resistance. She let 
herself be undressed and put to bed, feeling like 
a weary child, and quite heedless of her sur¬ 
roundings. 
" Will you ask my husband to come to me 7” 
she said, at length, feebly. 
“ But monsieur is gone, madame,” was the re¬ 
ply. •• Both the gentlemen are gone. Their busi¬ 
ness was too important to delay, they said ; so 
they brought madame here, and desired me to 
look after her, and continued their Journey.” 
Cora had listened to her with dilated eyes, with 
a cold chill striking on her heart. 
“Together?” she repeated — “ are you sure 
they are gone together ?” 
“ Oh 1 yes, madame. They went on In the mall 
train to Boulogne.” 
“ Did they leave no message for me ?” said Cora 
faintly. 
“ Monsieur said that madame would know the 
motive tor their haste, and that she was to re¬ 
main here until he returned.” 
Tne motive for their haste! Too well and too 
truly did Cora know It, and the knowledge 
brought her terrible pal o. What had she done? 
Oh ! heaveD, what had she done 7 They had 
gone to light—gone, perhaps, to meet deat h—one 
or both! 
Oh ! Heaven, save him,” moaned Cora, as she 
turned from the light, and hid her face In hope¬ 
less despair—“ save him from all harm, and let 
me only suffer, for the sin Is mine !’’ 
As she lay there she had leisure t.a think of It 
all; to picture tbe meeting, Alan’s terrible 
anger and pain, and tbe hatred which must ani¬ 
mate both men. 
“And l am so powerless!” she sobbed, as she 
tossed about among the pillows, and tried to 
cool her burning brow. "oh ! Alan—oh! my 
husband." 
In the morning the doctor came, a little sur¬ 
prised to flnd a patient so evidently of high 
position at a small a Merge like the “Maison 
Blanche,” as tne little roadside Inn was called. 
Ue gave her some soothing potion, forbade any 
excitement., and went away, promising to call 
again tbe following day. But. the potion had no 
effect In calming Cora’s excited nerves. 
Hour after hour she lay there, sleepless and 
miserable. She could hear, as they passed, the 
shrill whistle and rumbling of the trains, and 
Che gay chatter of the servants and customers 
ot the “Matson Blanche" as they talked under 
her windows. 
Now and again the kindly hostess came to her, 
to see If she could do anything tor her; but Lady 
Vincent shook her Uead In silent misery, and 
Madame Dumoulln went away, feeling sorry for 
the poor youug wife, who she began to suspect, 
was deserted by the big Englishman, who had 
called himself her husband. 
Evening came, and Cora could bear ber misery 
no longer. During those twelve short hours she 
had suffered a llfe-tlme of anguish, and the Inac¬ 
tion was unbearable. SUe rose, and with slow, 
feeble movements, managed partially to dress 
berself, and theu put on the dressing-gown which 
Spills had put In her traveling-bag, and whose 
dark shade ot crimson made her pallor still more 
ghastly. Having proceeded so tar, she was forced 
to sit down aud rest, before continuing the pro¬ 
cess ot halr-dresalug, and she sank upon one of 
the old-fashioned chintz-covered arm-chairs by 
the window, with her hair falling around her, 
and shading the beautiful, mournful face. 
As she sat there, a familiar step, sounding on 
the pavement without, attracted her attention, 
and the blood mounted in her cheek as she recog¬ 
nized her husband’s voice. It was he!—surely It 
was he 1 and she rose, and leant out ot the win¬ 
dow. Yes, she was not mistaken; the tall form 
standing by Madame Dumoulln was the form of 
her husband. He had returned, and unhurt. 
“Thank Heaven, thank Heaven!” 
Throwing her hair back from her face, she tried 
to reach the door ot her room, but her strength 
railed her, and she was obliged to support herself 
by the back of a chair. She heard steps on the 
stairs, coming along the landing, and pausing at 
her door. Then It was opened slowly, and Sir 
Alan Vincent appeared on tbe threshold. He 
came In quietly, closing and locking the door be¬ 
hind him. 
A slight expression of surprise crossed his pale, 
haggard face when be perceived his wile; for 
Madame Dumoulln- had led him to lmagLne that 
she was too ill ta rise, aud her appearance seemed 
to say that the landlady was right- He noticed 
the extreme pallor aud exhaustion of every feat¬ 
ure—the perfect helplessness and powerlessness 
ot her attitude as she drooped over the high-back¬ 
ed chair, without which she could not have stood 
at all, and a sentiment of pity for her mingled 
