NEW-YORKER. 
JURE 22 
“ They who have lo ved the fondest, the purest. 
Too oftOD have wept o’er the dream they believed.’’ 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
“Lady LrcrE Belmont, my lady,” announced 
Spills at. the door of Lady Cora’s boudoir, and her 
mistress rose up with a languid movement, 
strangely unlike her usual vivacity, to meet her 
visitor, who came forward with outstretched 
hands and her eyes full of tears. 
“Cora, I could not help coming, I am so sorry 
for you, dear,” 
Cora answered mechanically, and Lady Lucie 
sat down beside her, hor tears falling fast upon 
her companion’s heavy mourning dress, while 
Cora’s own eyes were dry and tearless, and glit¬ 
tering with an Incipient light of fever. 
•‘They told me you received no one,” went on 
Lady Lucie, tenderly clasping her hand in both 
hers; “but I hoped you would see me. How can 
I comfort, you? Ifow can 1 help you to bear It 
bettor, dear ? For the sake or old times l should 
like to do something for yon. 1 ' 
“No one can do anything," said the dreary 
voice, in slow tuneless accents, “lie was all I 
had in the world to love, and lm Is taken.” 
“Do not speak so mournfully, Cora. Remem¬ 
ber your husband—you must he brave for his 
sake.” 
A taint, hitter smile rose on Cora's lips, so in¬ 
expressibly sad and hopeless, that for a moment 
her visitor could not spoak. 
“ It Is vcr.r—very sad for you, dear Cora,” she 
said In a moment; " but. you must, not be so hope¬ 
less and despairing. Think how happy your little 
one Is now.” 
“ lie was very happy here,” said the bereaved 
young mother. “Why was he taken from me, 
Lady Lucie?” she added, passionately. “Other 
mothers have husbands w ho love them, besides 
t heir children, and when the little ones are t aken 
they have Btill some hope In life, I have—none 
—none—»oue 1” 
Her voice rose In anguish; hut before Lucie 
could Interpose she went, on again: 
“ I cannot be resigned, I cannot be happy. lie 
was the one person on earth who cared whether 
I lived or died. Now he Is gone. I am alone. My 
husband—he cares n->t forme. Bettor for him— 
much better that. 1 were dead and he were free!" 
She turned from her visitor, and throwing up 
her arms above her head. Hung herself on the 
cushions In passionate despair. 
Lady Lucie waited, soothing her with gentle 
words and caresses until she grew calmer, then 
she roae to go, creeping, although the childless 
mother did not abed a tour, and submitted to her 
caresses with a passive endurance. 
As Lady Lucie went across the lauding Sir Alan 
came out of his studio, and advanced towards her. 
She had not seen him since the death of his son, 
about a month before, aud started at. the Change 
she perceived in him. 
“ Have you seen Cora?” he said, eagerly. “ How 
is she bearing It? Lady Lucie, sho wUlnot see 
me, and yet, poor child—” 
He broke on abruptly with a heavy sigh, and 
Lady Lucie told him of her deep sympathy with 
his trouble. 
“Sir Alan," she went on, timidly, clasping her 
little hands as she lifted her blue eyes to his face, 
“you will not taluk me presumptuous, or that I 
am taking au unpardonable liberty. I. too, have 
known suffering.” 
He led her gently Into the studio, and made hor 
sit down on a pile of cushions, arranged In East¬ 
ern fashion upon the floor. 
“What Is It, Lady Lucie?” he said, gently. 
“You could not take a liberty with me. Tell me 
frankly what you wish to say.” 
“ You will not he angry?” she queried, doubts 
fully, then she went on quickly: “ Sir Alan, I 
cannot help seeing that something Is w rong be¬ 
tween you and Cora. Could I do anything? I 
fear very much that It may he caused by the 
same person through whom I myself suffered. I 
believe now that it was partly through want of 
perfect DraakflesH— Please let me speak,” she 
continued, eagerly, as he was about to interrupt. 
“ I know somewhat of the cause of your trouble. 
George Lecson”—the fair face flushed slightly 
hero—“ told mo a little. Are you sure you are 
not misjudging your wife? She suffers so much 
from your coldness.” 
Sir Alan sighed heavily. 
“Lady Lucy," he said, gently, “I know how 
sincere your friendship Is, and how kind your In¬ 
tention ; but ll is not from my coldness that 
Cora suffers. I think she Is unhappy: hut a 
marriage contracted, not only without love, but 
when the love was given, cannot be a happy one. 
Her affection, poor girl, was given long before 1 
met her; it Is too late now to alter. We must 
both lxar our cross, you know. Believe me, I 
feel, and deeply, that you wish to see us happier. 
Terhaps In later years, when we forget—until 
then-” 
Lady Lucie rose sorrowfully; she saw from Sir 
Alan’s resolute tone that there was no present 
Lope, and she took her leave sadly. 
When she entered the carriage, the powdered 
footman glanced surprlsedly at the remains of 
tears upon Uer face; hut the surprise deepened 
when she g tve him the address; Instead of the 
“ Home ” he had expected, she said, quietly ; 
“Drive to Mr. Leesou’s studio In Elm Tree 
Walk.” 
While Lady J.ucle Belmont was driving rapidly 
towards the old street overlooking the river 
where Mr. Leeson lived, Alan Vincent had re¬ 
turned lo his studio, thinking or what, she had 
said; and calmly as he had received her words, 
they had not been without effect. Peruaps after 
all, be told himself, he liad not, been quite fair to 
Cora; hut then, the proors were overwhelming. 
Had ho not met her with Lord Almane and acci¬ 
dentally Intercepted their flight V 
True, the Viscount had, on that gray October 
morning, when they had met, In the early dawn, 
on the ..ands at Audresselies, proclaimed Cora’s 
Innocence; but he laughed at an assurance be- 
THE RURAL 
lied by proofs, nad not Marks, after he left his 
service, written him a letter, telling hlrnthathe 
had, many a time and oft, been the unseen spec¬ 
tator of passionate love-scenes between Lady 
Cora Vincent and Lord Almane? and the man 
cculd have had no motive tor such an assertion. 
Besides, had not he himself found In the railway 
carriage—had he not still in his possession—the 
lit,Ho note in Cora's handwriting, agreeing to 
the flight with Lord Almane—the flight he had 
Intercepted ? Of what avail would explanations 
have been? What, could stn have said, with 
truth, to justify herself? Nothing I Nay, did ho 
not hold still— unread, It, ts true—the letter ad¬ 
dressed to her by Lord Almane, which had been 
brought to him on the morning their boy had 
been taken? Ah! she was guilty—3he was un¬ 
worthy. 
No; It Cora suffered, she brought the suffering 
on herseir, and the burden she had laid upon her¬ 
self she must hear; but when he thought of her 
sitting alone in her terrible grief ami bereave¬ 
ment, he felt, by the Intense yearning to com¬ 
fort her and lessen her grief, that his love for 
her was as strong as ever. He remembered her 
agouy on the night when summoned by Marianna, 
she found her little son attacked with croup; 
again he heard her wild, Imploring cry to the 
sy in pa tlitying - physician. 
“ Oh ! save him—save him for me! He Is all I 
have In the world !” 
And his heart softened strangely towards the 
woman whom he loved—loved still, believing her 
to he unworthy. 
The studio seemed awfully still and quiet that 
evening as dusk gathered around. Sir Ainu felt 
the loneliness dreadfully oppressive; and, leav¬ 
ing the room, ho ordered his horse, and rode away 
to The Bungalow, resolved to tell his mother all, 
and entreat her advice, and clear, Impartial judg¬ 
ment. 
Cora, la her silent room heard him go, and 
went to the window to see him ride away, 
standing there motionless until he was out of 
sight. 
A tew moments after, her maid came la with a 
message to say that Sir Alan had ridden over lo 
Lady Vlncent’3, and would not return until the 
morning. 
“Very well,” Cora replied, In the dreary tune¬ 
less voice habitual to her now. "I shall not re¬ 
quire you again this evening, Spills,” 
“Very well, my lady. Can 1 bring you any¬ 
thing?" 
“ No, thank you; I shall want nothing more.” 
And Cora glanced up, and gave the woman a 
very faint, sad smile. 'Then she put out her 
hand. 
“You have always been kind aud attentive to 
me,” she said, gently, “lam not unmindful of 
It ” 
“No, dear my lady, l would do anytlilbYT. 1 
wish I could do something,” faltered the maid, as 
she went away, wiping off her tears, which had 
not ceased to flow when sue reached the servants’ 
hall, where they were notic'd, and commented 
upon. 
“My lady looked, aud spoke so gentle,” said 
Spills, sobbing. “ She seemed as it she was bid¬ 
ding me good-by!" 
When the maid had disappeared, Cora rose, 
locked her door, and began pacing up and down 
the room with bent head and clasped hands. A 
crowd of memories, bitter aud sweet came surg¬ 
ing up In her mind. Even her childhood’s days— 
the merry, happy life before her father's death— 
came hack to her; her early girlhood, her happy 
borne at The Tryst, her brother. Lord Almane, 
that dreadful time at Rome, when Harold had 
been taken from her, and when her husband had 
proved himself so tender and faithful. These 
were followed by later memories: the long, hap¬ 
py, dream-like time which bad followed her mar¬ 
riage, the birth of her child, and Sir Alan’s joy, 
their pride aud delight in him. Then came the 
dark shadow which had tallen upon thorn In 
Paris, the subsequent misery, and, Anally, the 
visit of that 
" Reaper, whose name is Death, 
Who, with fain giokle keen, 
Reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 
And the flinvera that grow between.” 
And here Cora’s head sank lower, and her frame 
quivered with anguish. 
When she raised her head, her pale face hud an 
expression of resolution stamped upon it. 
She crossed over to her davenport, unlocked if, 
and looked out some letters—a few of Sir Alan’s, 
written at various times of their engagement aud 
some of her brother’s, which shit fastened to¬ 
gether, aud hid in her breast. Then she went 
slowly Into the rooms which had been little liar- 
old’s, and lingered there awhile, touching with 
tender fingers the little garments which had been 
folded away, uktug up with reverent bands the 
toys he had used, and replacing t hem lu their 
places without, a tear or sigh. Then she came 
rouud to the. little cot, and sank riri her knees be¬ 
side It, resting her head on the snowy pillow, 
where the Child's had so oiteit laid, and caressing 
It as If it were something living, and able to un¬ 
derstand her woe. .She knelt there some t line; so 
long that, when she rose, her limbs were cramped 
aud stiff, and, tor a moment, she had to steady 
herself against the bed. When she returned to 
the room she had left, the lire was dying out, 
and the household had retired to rest, foi all 
seemed quiet. 
Throwing UerselC upon a couch, she waited, 
watching the dying embers on the hearth, listen¬ 
ing Intently la hear if all was still, with a strange, 
stony glare lu her largo eyes, and a set look upon 
her fair face. 
Now and then a few words escaped her pale 
lips. 
“It cannot be slu when one Jsso miserable; 
atlersi, one will suffer no longer. He will not 
care—perhaps no one will ever know,” 
Then, when all was still lu the house, when 
hardly a souud disturbed the echoes of the silent 
square, she rose and made her way out of the 
room, across the gallery and the studio into a 
room beyond—a little room overlooking the 
square, half library, half study, which Sir Alan 
had named his “ den,” and where he kept his 
chemicals of various kinds and drugs. 
Putting her light upon the table, with a firm 
step Lady Cora approached a tall, ebony cabinet 
at one end of the room, but when she attempted 
to open if. she found that it was locked. Hastily 
she looked over the room, hoping to tind the key, 
but her search was vain. Then she remembered 
that sir Alan kept his keys in his dressing-room, 
and she went there with the same tlrm tread and 
fixed expression on her pallid countenance. 
Having lonnd them she returned, and having 
ti led sovoral, lilted one Into the lock and opened 
It; sundry small bottles stood upon the dark 
shelves, and Cora took up first oue and then the 
other Irresolutely. 
At last she found the one she sought, a small 
glacs phial, labelled “ Laudanum—Poison.” Hur¬ 
riedly relocklug the cabinet, she turned from It, 
and taking out the stopper from the bottle, she 
raised 11 to her lips. 
One moment more and Cora Vincent’s short 
life would have been ended ; hut even as she 
raised her hand, her arm was caught Horn be¬ 
hind, the phial Buatehed from her hand and 
thrown violently upon the ground, breaking Into 
pieces as It fell, aud a faint heavy odor arose Irom 
the liquid It had contained. 
Cora uttered a faint, cry of terror, and sank upon 
her knees by the table, hiding her face In both 
her hands. 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
" We fell oul tny wife ami I, 
Aud kissed agaiu with tears." 
For some minutes Cora did not venture to raise 
her head, even to ascertain who It was who, by 
sudden intervention, had thus defeated her pur¬ 
pose; hut wheu she uncovered her face elm saw 
that it was her hushuid who had seized the phial 
and destroyed It, and the same glance showed 
her that lie was terribly agitated. I le stood lean¬ 
ing against the wall with his head bowed upon 
litsbreast, and the strong, white hands shaking 
like an aspen from t he sudden terror. Of the two 
Cora was the more seir-possessod, her hand was 
steady enough as she rose from her kneeling 
position and faced him almost (letl inily; but she 
did not. speak, and it was some minutes before 
Sir Alan could master his emotion sufllclenUy to 
do so. 
“ Cora,” he said, in a low, horror-stricken voice, 
“ what were you about to do ?” 
“ Simply this," she said, calmly, “to rid myself 
of a burden which Is getting unbearable to me, 
aud to rid you of my presence. Why did you 
coineso Inopportunely ? Had you been half au 
hour later all would lure been over satisfactorily 
to us both!” 
“ How can you—how dare you speak thus, 
Cora7” he said. “ 1 thank Heaven that l arrived 
In lime. Oh, think what you were going to do, 
and—” 
“Do you suppose I have not thougnt?” she 
said, bitterly. “ it Is because I have done so—be¬ 
cause I reel thatniy misery will end In driving me 
mad—that I wish to end my wretched, my most 
miserable life. While my boy lived 1 was not 
quite hopeless, now-” 
she turned away with a hopeless, despairing 
gesture.—[To be continued, 
-♦-*-*- 
LEAVES FROM THE BIRCHES. 
EVA. 
Chirrup, chirrup, r-r cbee, and looking out Into 
the fragrant shadow of an old, gnarled apple tree, 
I see a great, red-breasted robin, sitting In the 
warm June sunshine. What a rollicking fellow 
he Is, to be sure! see how he swings on tiny twig 
with never a wink of the bright red eyeB: now he 
hops higher where the shade Is thicker and the 
sunlight checks Ills crimson breast, aud the love¬ 
ly blossoms pull their sweet breath at him; round 
and round be hops, tipping hack and forth, pour¬ 
ing out his rich, liquid notes In mad, boisterous 
glee. Now he darts off, and only the gentle sway¬ 
ing of that tirauch convinces us we have not been 
half asleep and dreaming, wooed by the sweet 
scents and sounds of this pleasant, afternoon. 
I see many things from this window oi mine. 
There are sprays of melting pink In the shape of 
hearts, with a speck In the center, peeping every¬ 
where, long, old sprays, faded and gray, and 
baby sprays just, learning how to hang daintily 
and sway gracerully In the fickle breeze. The 
language of this flower Is woo, and Is that why 
they are In the shape of hearts, and do human 
hearts blossom Into as rare beauty when all cause 
for sorrow Is left behind ? Close by It is a slender 
plum tree, nor, quite so romantic perhaps, but 
more satisfy lug tolhn physical needs, us lathe 
wine plant, tspreading Its tent, over by the grape 
trellis. Chirrup cnee chee cnee, you conceited 
lellow, did you think I could not get along with¬ 
out your company ? There Is a hive of bees near 
tint apple tree, and one benevolent branch 
reaches down Its wealth of blossoms for tholr 
henelit, and they tumble on and over It without 
a word of thanks, and fly home heavily laden. 
Here a bed of pansies turn their faces toward me, 
all smiling, but with different shades of expres¬ 
sion. Some blue and melancholy, some nearly 
black and very energetic looking, and some with 
golden hearts like a few people l love, There la a 
bunch or grass pinks, which whisper to me of 
sister bunches dwelling over a tiny grave miles 
and miles away. A " General Washington " 
droops and pines for Hfiold quarters In theslt,ting- 
room window, for though Its (Ills) predecessor 
delighted lu situations that favored progression, 
this one llnda Itself Indignant at the sun’s hot 
rays, and bows Its head lu dejection. 
A broken flower-rack lies In the path. What 
can l say of that? Oh! yes, the 1Htie lingers 
that fashioned It Ungers that, belonged to a rude, 
noisy boy; but—what should we do without 
them ? Then a rug made by some dear old work- 
worn hands, “ such beautiful, beautiful hands,” 
that lies on the springing grass, and the grass 
that looks like tuft s aud waves of emerald velvet 
—chirr eblrr-rr-r chee. And upon the hill yonder 
is a house, a white house I should say, hair hid¬ 
den by trees. Who can tell of the hopes and dis¬ 
appointments, Joys and sorrows, that have blos¬ 
somed and died beneath that old roof tree? I 
can see in Imagination the prattling child, the 
coy maiden, and the shy, sweet bride that 
stepped Into mafronhood there, with the crystal 
cup of hope pressed tolwr lovtug lips; the aged 
father and mother who sit alone and wait for the 
summons to a brighter, pleasanter home. 
Up against au old building la a hunch of “ bur¬ 
dock.” Its broad leaves carry me hack to child¬ 
hood, when a loved companion would use the 
“burs” for purposes of adornment. He would 
string them up the creased pant leg. run them In 
single file over his shoulders and coat sleeves, and 
my Imagination would clothe him in soldier uni¬ 
form, and these were the “stripes of honor,” and 
no conquering hero ever felt prouder than I did 
of that boyish, handsome face and figure. The 
only things left within my range of vision are 
(must I mention those prosaic things) the door¬ 
step, a pile of brush, and a clothes-line. But the 
shadow of the house roof has some way got Into 
the middle of the flower bed, which reminds me 
it Is tea time. 
-»♦ » 
CONJUGAL DISCORDS. 
11. H. 
The weaknesses and follies of women are a 
theme on which men, from the sage to the clown, 
have at all times been eloquent. Her natural co¬ 
quetry In dress, her maternal vanity, her devotion 
ro the little elegancies of the home, to dean win¬ 
dows and fresh curtains, are Inexhaustible 
sources of masculine merriment or abuse. What 
housekeeper ever complained of an aching hack 
or of nervous irritation without being scolded by 
her “ lord ” tor some extra work she had done In 
beautifying the homo 7 Men never seem to learn 
that women, as a rule, cannot find life endurable 
In the atmosphere of dust, and disorder which 
characterizes bachelor housekeeping, and which 
seldom disturbs the equanimity of the masculine 
mind lu the least. Men and women are so dif¬ 
ferent lu their tastes and ways that there must 
always be discord and unhappiness lo the house¬ 
hold until the sexes give over trying to change or 
remodel those tastes and ways, and learn to re¬ 
spect them. Men must accept as Inevitable the 
fact that women to be happy must, have artistic, 
or at least dainty and cozy, environments; and 
women must learn to preserve their souls in quiet 
when men spill t.belr tobacco and ashes over the 
carpets and tables, for probably no man ever 
lived who could nil a pipe, even from a wash- 
tub, without scattering the tobacco over the pre¬ 
mises. 
That the sexes will give over trying to reform 
each other does not seem likely to happen very 
soon. Indeed, one might be pardoned tor believ¬ 
ing that matrimony Is specially adapted to de¬ 
velop all the imperfections aud meannes.es of 
human character, and that even of tli 068 matches 
that are made in heaven, the devil arranges all the 
subsequent cordlllous. There Is hardly a pure 
and Innocent delight that unmarried women en¬ 
joy which they can carry Into that blissful world 
bounded by the marriage-ring. One of those de¬ 
lights Is that oi squandering a little money, 
wlflch Is merely thu equivalent Of man spending 
It as he likes, without, accounting to any one. 
Few wives can do tilts and not be subjected to 
the humiliation of hearing the husband say, “My 
dear, are you not a little extravagant ? Is all 
that money gone that, l gave you last week?" 
Men and women seem Incapacitated, In the very 
nature oi things, irom understanding each other. 
While mutually enamored they meet as upon a 
bridge—a Bridge of Highs perhaps: break this, 
and they are for ever separated as by an impass¬ 
able gulf. Luavlug aside entirely the enamored 
stale, do men as a rule seek the society of women 
and prefer It to that of men ? The thriving clubs, 
the billiard and drinking saloon^ aud the other 
rctorts of ineu common all over the civilized 
world, seem very like a negative answer to the 
questl m. lu savage life We know that the sexes 
do not hunt or fish or do any woik together. In our 
modern drawing-rooms most men confess them¬ 
selves “ bored.” They lODg to get away to their 
clubs or some other resort of their fellows. When 
husbands spend their evenings at home, It no one 
happens to call, It Is not common for them to enter 
Into long and exhlleratlng conversations with 
their wives. To be sure, wives are too often Ig¬ 
norant of the subjects that Interest intelligent 
men; still, not more Ignorant than before mar¬ 
riage, when the one bridge upon which they 
could meet was unbroken. Then conversation 
never flagged ; It was ever new and entrancing. 
Both talked pure nonsense, white having the art 
or “kissing full sense, into empty words.” On the 
other hand, It Is, 1 think, quite a defensible propo¬ 
sition, tlcspUe the inferences to the contrary 
drawn irom the failure of the Women’s Hotel, 
that women enjoy conversation with women more 
than with men when there is no possible question 
of gallantry or flirtation; and, anally, that the 
recognition of the lact that men and women are 
not by nature lu sympathetic accord, but only 
attracted through the law of compensation Of 
opposii.es, will do mure than till other things com¬ 
bi oed to make them study each other's nature 
and to reaped sexual bl wte» and characteristics, 
thu mot ive for that study being, or course, the 
consmmuaUouof the Ideal marriage, where man 
and woman set themselves t ogether “like perfect 
music Unto noble words ."—fur July. 
-+ « » 
TIIK GOOD M.vs'tt DEPART OUE. 
Win weep ye, then, for hun. who, hating won 
The hound or u uu’b appointed ye rs. at last. 
Life’s blessings all enjoyed, hlo h labors done, 
Serenely to Ids fluid rust has passed; 
While the soft memory of his virtues yet 
Lingers like twilight hues when the bright sun Is set. 
[B. yard. 
