THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
381 
and spoke: “ Do you moan that you aro going to 
send mo away ?’’ she said. “ Do you mean that I 
T am not to be with you any more ? ’ 
Ho bowed Ids head In acquiescence, but made 
no other reply, ills wire rose from her seat and 
clasped her hands despairingly. 
“ Do you mean that you are going to deny me 
the sholtor of your roof? That 1 am to seek 
another homo? if It be so, then T arn willing ; 
do with me what you will, I care not—I care not,.’’ 
“ I wish to make every arrangement for your 
comfort and respectability,” he answered, his 
voice a little unsteady now at the passionate 
despair In her tone and manner. " Even after 
all that has passed, I desire but ono thing—your 
happiness.” 
She laughed a bitter, tuneless laugh, as she 
turned away fromjblm. 
“ I am ready whenjyou wish,” she replied ; “ I 
will do what you order. Am I not submissive 
enough now 7 Let me takelmy child and go," 
“ T cannot let you take the child,” he said, 
quickly. “ Ask yoursoir whether you are a flit 
guardian for him ?" 
“ But you cannot take him from me,” she said, 
beginning to tremble violently. “ He Is my child; 
you would not be so cruel—you could not take him 
from me—Alan, you will not.” 
“Can I, loving my boy, trust him to you, 
Cora ?" 
The words were very sadly but llrmly spoken. 
“ But 1 could not live without him,” she said, 
nerving herself to speak calmly. “ He wilt be my 
only comfort now that you, his father,”-oh, the 
Inexpressible pathos of her voice—“ condemn me 
so entirely. If you had hLm, ho could not love 
me; you might teach lilm to despise me. Alan, 
you will not—you will let me have him—In pity.* 1 
Hho had crept to his side and laid ber little 
trembling bands on his arm. The touch thrilled 
him, but he turned from her resolutely, and shook 
his head. 
“ I could not trust him to you,” he replied, try¬ 
ing to repress all signs of emotion. 
“Not trust lilm to his mother!” Sbo turned 
from him with a choked, walling cry; a film 
gathered over her eyes; hor gait became un¬ 
steady, and sbo reeled and fell forward, fainting 
away. 
To spring to hor side, to raise her In his arms, 
and press burn! lib kisses on the pallid face and 
closed eyelids, was the work of a moment. Then 
Sir Alan laid her upon the couch, and, turning 
from her, bowed his head upon his hands anil 
waited. 
Cora’s swoon was not of long duration. A few 
minutes after she slowly unclosed her vetoed 
lids, and raised her hand to her brow with a 
troubled gosturo. One look at the bowed figure 
of hor husband recalled to her mind the painful 
discussion In which they had been engaged. 
She slid from the couch on which she lay, and 
dragged herself slowly—she was too weak to 
walk—to his feet. Then shu clasped her arms 
around his knees, and rested her head against 
accede to this proposal, because of the pain It 
would give my mother to know of the separation 
between us. It can be hid from her as from the 
world. If you will, I shall be anxious to know 
the decision. Will you tell your attendant one 
word for rue: * Yes,’ or * No V ” 
“Tell monsieur * Yes,"’ said Cora, as she fin¬ 
ished reading, and lay back with her cheek up¬ 
on the letter, refusing the dainty breakfast 
Madame Dumoulln bad prepared for her, but 
feeling happier at the thought of being with Sir 
Alan on any conditions, anil, exhausted with 
sleepless nights and constant agitation, Cora 
fell Into a heavy sleep, which lasted until the 
afternoon. 
She awoke refreshed and better, and was able 
to meet sir Alan at dinner with her usual self- 
possession, although the constraint between 
them was equally painful to both. 
“ Shall you be equal to a Journey to Paris to¬ 
morrow?” he asked, as they separated at night 
“ I do not want to delay, if possible, terminating 
my business there, and relieving Marks and your 
maid of t.helr uncertainty.” 
“ I will be ready.” Cora said, quietly; although 
tho start which the name of Marks produced 
did not escape Sir Alan, and the shade which 
seemed habitual on his face now deepened a 
little.—[To be continued. 
them with a moan of anguish, which went to her 
husband’s heart. 
“Alan, for Harold’s sake!—for our boy’s sake— 
forgive!” 
OUR TO-MORROWS 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
For Harold’s Sake. 
For some minutes there was perfect stillness to 
the room. Not a sound broke upon the silence 
within, although from without came the gay 
chatter of tho passers-by, or the rumbling of a 
passing cart. 
suddenly, somo one below began to play a con¬ 
certina, and the tune played—the “Miserere” 
out of “II Trovatore,”—sounded sadly to the 
quiet, room. Long afterwards, Cora could not 
hear that tunc without pain. 
8MJ1, Hlr Alan did not move, Or look up, and still 
Cora crouched at his feet, her sleuder hands 
clasping his knees, hor head resting against him, 
the masses of shining hair falling over her. It 
was thus ho saw her when ho raised Ills head at 
last, in hor attitude of humiliation and abase¬ 
ment. praying for forgiveness. 
“ For Harold’s sake—for our boy’s sake!” 
At. last he spoke, and his voice, though husky 
and unsteady, had lost tho bitterness and harsh¬ 
ness of its former tones. 
“ Hlse,” he said. “ Cora, I cannot see you 
thus.” 
And he put his hand upon her l: ead, and tried 
to raise her; but she caught his hand to both 
hers, and broke Into sobs, which shook hor slight 
form with alarming violence. 
“I will not rise —r will not rise,” she said, 
until you have rorgivon me." 
With that ho bunt over her, and said a few gen¬ 
tle wards of pardon and peace, and made her rise, 
and placed her gently back In the arm-chair; and 
the tears carne more quietly then. When ho saw 
that she was calmer, ho rose. 
“I will lcavo you now,” he said, quietly. “This 
agitation has been too much for you. i hope you 
will try and rest, and I will think what is best to 
be done for your welfare and happiness, as well 
as for Harold’s. I will see yon In the morning.” 
Ho went away, leaving hor to darkness, and 
alone—leaving her to wear away the long Dlght 
hours with tears and prayurs—leaving hor to 
realize that he was lost to her forever, because 
he believed her guilty, and because she could 
not justify herself. 
The next morning a letter was given to her. 
She recognized her husband’s handwriting, and 
trembled as she broke tho seal, and read the few 
cold lines It contained. 
“The thought of being separated from Har¬ 
old seemed to give you so rnuoh unhappiness that 
I have tried to avoid the necessity. Are you wil¬ 
ling to return to London, and live to all outward 
respects as we have done since our marriage? 
V* ;.n meet as husband and wife in public, 
and before the world ; alone, we can be stran¬ 
gers. I am the more anxious that you should 
I'-annik n. noniNBOft, 
The sky hail been sunless and dun all day ; 
And dreamy and soft foil the faltering snow; 
And tho startled swallows had fluttered away 
To the roses and summors that love them so; 
And tho story of Greece and hor glorlousjdead 
In tho sweet loug dreaming was all unhoard ; 
And tho grammar was tamo, and I learned. Instead, 
Tho wonderful speech of u passing bird. 
Til) the darkness fell on an empty (Jay. 
And the winter sun grew cold and dim; 
And the chattering sparrows would not stay 
A moment longer to.oonrt my whim. 
I remember the flush of gradual shamo 
At tho vacant places beside my ehair, 
And Just how the wasted moments came, 
Like mocking spirits, to hsuat me there. 
But down the length of the homely room 
I caught the full uf a patient trend; 
And where. O childhood, were tears and gloom, 
As a loved hand lifted a drooping head ? 
While even to childhood's untutored oar 
There throbbed a hint- of remembered pain 
Through the comforting words, “ Never mind it dear! 
To-morrow we'll both begin over again." 
I have learned “to be ” and " to suffer” nmco then, 
And I know the talc of tho Holden Age; 
And without tho swallows have learned again 
The weary lessons of life's hard page, 
lint oh, when tho day and darkness meet 
I hoar, like tho echo ol somo refrain. 
Like the chant of a promiso, low and sweot. 
*’ To-morrow, my child, begin over again.’’. 
Oh 1 blessed pardon of empty days! 
Oh I sign of a harvest still to reap! 
Who talks of an end to our wearisome ways ? 
Who sighs l'or the coining of careless sleep? 
Beyond the borders of our despair 
God’s fair Forever la Just in sight: 
And, all unsullied by earthly wear, 
He keeps His To-morrows new and whito. 
[Sunday Afternoon. 
PICTURE OF CONSTANTINOPLE 
What an Italian Prose Poet Saw There 
The most remarkable work on the Turkish 
capital which Uas been born of the present I ntorest 
to Eastern affairs Is Edmoodo do Amlcls’ “Con¬ 
stantinople.” De Amlcls 19 a poet, an artist, a 
wonder-worker with words, who so writes of 
what ho has seen as to make his reader not only 
share the sight, but share also tlio mood In which 
It was seen, the emotions awakened and tho lm- 
presslou left upon bis own mind. The following 
Is the author’s description of tho city and of the 
sights on the floating bridge across tho Golden 
Horn: 
“Tho vision of this morning lias vanished. 
The Constantinople of light and beauty has 
given place to a monstrous city, scattered about 
over an Infinity or hills and valleys; It Is a laby¬ 
rinth of human ant-hills, cemeteries, ruins and 
solitudes; a confusion of civilization and barbar¬ 
ism which presents an image or all the cities up¬ 
on earth, and gathers to itself all tho aspects of 
human life. It Is really but the skeleton of a 
great city, of which the smaller part Is walls and 
the rest an enormous agglomeration of barraoks, 
an Interminable Asiatic encampment; in which 
swarms a population that has never been counted 
of people of every race and every religion. It Is 
a great city In process of transformation, com¬ 
posed of ancient cnios that are in decay, new 
cities of yesterday, and other cities now being 
born; everything Is to confusion; on every side 
are seen traces of gigantic works, moun- 
tains pierced, hills out down, houses lev¬ 
elled to the ground, great srreete designed; 
an Immense mass of rubbish and remains 
| of conflagrations upon ground forever tor- 
| mented by the hand of man. 
There, is a disorder, a confusion, of the 
most Incongruous objects, a succession of 
; the strangest and most unexpected sights, 
that make one’s head turn round; you go 
to the end of a rlne street, it Is closed by a 
j, ravine or precipice; you come our. of the 
theater to rind yourself to the midst of 
tombs; you clLmb to tho top of a hill to 
nnd a forest under your feet and a city on 
t the hill opposite to you; you turn suddenly 
to look at the quarter you have Just trav- 
I ersed and you nnd it. at the bottom of a deep 
gorget, half hidden In trees; you turn tow¬ 
ard a house. It Is a port; you go up a street, 
there Is no more city; only a deserted detllo 
rrom which nothing but the sky Is visible; 
r cities start forth, hide themselves, iLse 
[ above your head, under your feet, behind 
your back, far and near, to the sun, in tho 
shade, among groves, on the sea; take a step 
to advance, behold an Immense panorama; 
b take a step backward, there Is nothing to be 
seen; lift your eyes, a thousand mtnarei 3 ; 
descend one step, they aro all gone. The 
streets bent lino unto lie angles wind about 
among small hills, are raised on terraces, 
skirt ravines; pass under aqueducts, break 
Into alleys, run down steps, through bushes, 
rocks, rums, sand hills. * * * 
“ in the midst of Turkish houses rise Eu¬ 
ropean palaces; behind t he minaret stands 
tho bell-tower; above the terrace, the 
I dome; beside the dome, the battlemented 
wall; the Chinese roofs of kiosks hang over 
Sj tho facades or theaters; the grated baleo- 
f ules of the harem confront, the plate-glass 
wludow ; Moorish lattices look upon railed 
terraces; niches with the Madonna within 
arc set beneath Arabian arches; sepulchres 
arc to the court-yards, and towers among 
the laborers' cabins; mosques, synagogues, 
k Greek churches Catholic churches, Arineni- 
* an churches, rise one above the other, amid 
a confusion of vanes, cypresses, umbrella 
* pines, llg and plane trees, that stretch t.helr 
branches over the roofs—an todlscrlbable 
architecture, apparently of expediency, 
lends Itself to the caprices of the ground, 
witu a crowd of houses cut Into points, to 
tho form of triangular towers, of erect and 
overturned pyramids, surrouuded with 
bridges, ditches, props, gathered together 
like tho broken fragments ot a mountain. 
“in one quarter of an hour you must 
change your manner of proceeding ten 
times. You go down, you climb up, you 
Jump down a declivity, ascend a stone stair¬ 
case, sink to the mud and clamber over a 
hundred obstacles, rnako your way now 
might have sunk ? You have hud lime to 
think over It quietly to-day ; do you not re¬ 
coil with horror fro a such a prospect V No, 
tUoro can be no explanations. Do not trou¬ 
ble yourself, for your actions, and their In¬ 
tent cannot be explained away; they arc 
self-ovtdent.” 
Ho paused a moment, but he did not speak 
or move. 
“ I loved you," he went on, with sup¬ 
pressed passion, now, In tho tones which 
had been so clear and cold. “ l loved you 
so dearly that the mere suspicion of your 
guilt was ulmost uneudurable anguish. 
Cora, when I saw you last night coming 
toward me, I could have weloomed death; 
1 could have prayed for It to save me from 
the knowledge of your dishonor. Nay, I 
know what you would say ; I know what, 
ho tried to make me hear last night: ' That 
you were chance travelers !’ Bah, what a 
madman you must think me! Ah, If I 
fought, It was not because I believed you 
Innocent, but because t knew you guilty, 
and because l wins mad, and could havo 
killed him as ha stood.” 
She shivered, and lifting her eyes to his, 
asked, mutely, a question she dared not ask 
with her Bps. 
“ You are anxious for his welfare?” ho 
said, with a bitter laugh. “ Ho Is unhurt, 
but you will not see him again. He had so 
much grace, that he swore never to seek you 
again; and so much shame, that he did not 
lift his hand against, the man he had so bit¬ 
terly injured. But ot what avail is all this ? 
What do you wish to do V Where do wish 
to live?" 
An expression of wondering surprise 
crossed her face ; hut, Sir Alan, studiously 
avoiding a glance at hor, did not sec It. 
“ You are my wife," he said, to a few mo¬ 
ments ; “ and were you uot so, you have a 
special and sacred claim on my protection. 
I loved your brother well, and the promise 1 
gave him 1 will keep to the utmost of my 
power.” 
“ Oh, Harold, Harold !" she cried passion¬ 
ately—" my brother—my brother, who nev¬ 
er Judged me cruelly, who bore with mo so 
tenderly,—would to heaven you had taken 
mo with you, away from such misery as 
this: 
" Pshaw l” said the baronet, impatiently. 
I told you I abhorred scenes; let us out 
this short, and cease such heroics. Tell me 
what i can do to keep you from sin, and I 
will try to meet your wishes ?" 
Cora did not answer for some minutes, 
she was struggling to repress her tears, and 
it was only when Sir Alan said quietly : 
“ I am waiting,” that she raised her head 
I, Zephyr, in the sultry nooutide sighing, 
Woo thee to slumber, ere I sink to sleep; 
The naiads heavy-eyed aro languid lying: 
Through burning sands their lingering runnels creep, 
Drowsed by tho shrill eicala’s weary crying, 
The dryads dream, in hazel shadows deep. 
Canst thou tho sun-god’s blighting beam withstand ? 
Sleep 1 the nymphs all are sleeping through the land. 
