NOV. 6 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
74< 
I ittrarj UtiMang. 
OUR SHIPS AT SEA. 
How many of us have ships at sea, 
Freighted with wishes, and hopes, atid l'ears, 
Tossing about on the waves, while wo 
Linger and wait on the shoro for years, 
Gazing afar through the distance dim 
And sighing, will ever onr.ships come in ? 
We Bent them away with laughter and song. 
The decica were white, and the sails were new, 
The fragrant breezes bore them along. 
The sea was calm and the skies were blue. 
And we thought as we watched them sail away 
Of the Joy they would bring us some future day. 
Long have wo watched beside the shore 
To oatoh the gleam of a coming sail. 
But wo only hear the breakers’ roar 
Or the sweeping night wind's dismal wail, 
Till onr cheeks grow pale, and our eyes grow dim 
And we sadly sigh, will they uever como in ? 
Oh ! poor Bad heart, with its burden of cares. 
Its aims defeated, Us worthless life. 
That has garnered only the thorns and the tares, 
That is seared and torn in the pitiful strife, 
Afar on the heavenly golden shore 
Thy ships are anchored for ever more. 
-- 
INMATES OF LESTEE HALL. 
(Continued from page 726.) 
CHAPTER XV. 
VENGEANCE FALLS UPON HERSELF. 
In a breathless silence Cecil and Dr. Carewe 
stood for a few momenta facing each other. The 
light from the hanging lamp fell upon both faces, 
and lighted up the shamed, stricken agony of Ms— 
the disdainful anguish of here. 
“ Now do you under3taud 7" she said, speaking 
slowly, with cruel precision and coldness. “ Do 
you understand why 1 strove to win your love ?— 
that 1 might get ruy own revenge !” 
“ Revenge on me for that 7" he said, hoarsely, 
looking at the rigid calm of her face with the 
yearning of despair in his piteous glancer. “ Is 
that your justice, Cecil 7” 
“ It is my retribution,” she said, calmly. “ For 
It 1 won your love; for this moment I have striven, 
and now I have taken my vengeance I” 
“ Great Heaven l” he said, brokenly, as his 
frame shook with a sudden shudder, and his lips 
could hardly frame the words, “fora brothers_» 
She Interrupted him Uereoly. 
“ And why not, she said, bitterly. " Why not 7’ 
“ It is not Just," he said, brokenly, as he turned 
from her ; then his great love mastered him, and 
he caught her hands In a fierce, nervous clasp, and 
drew her to him. 
•• My darling, have pity!” he said, earnestly. 
“ What can I do to atone. 8 o your sister’s life; 
they say I helped to save it; will it not atone for 
that other whose loss you yourself hardly regret¬ 
ted os 1 did7 If you wilt trust your happiness to 
me, Cecil, I shall hold It as the most precious 
treasure. Nay, you shall not go; you shall hear 
me 1” and. before she could resist him, he had 
caught her In Ida arms, and was looking with 
mad longing into her eyes. “ Answer me—you 
will trust me, Cecil? Nay, you shall be mine ; I 
love you! t will not give you up l” 
Cecil paled to ber lips and her eyes dashed. 
“ Coward!” she said, scornfully. 
And at tho contemptuous word hta clasp fell 
from around her, and he drew back slightly, while 
she looked at him for a moment with an expres¬ 
sion of superb disdain. Then her eyes fell, and 
with a sudden gesture she Ume 1 from him. 
“ Forgive me I” he said, hoarsely. “ I was mad, 
but tho madness is past. Spare me yet one mo¬ 
ment more, and I will trouble you no longer 1” 
Ills voice was choked and broken, and the vibra¬ 
tion of Intense suffering In bis tone made her 
pause. She stood Still, her face averted from him, 
her head erect. With all her haughty calmness 
there was a quiver on her lip. 
“ I cannot give you up,” he said, at length, la a 
broken voice of pain. “ Cecil, have you no pity ? 
You gave me hope—you lei mo be happy for a few 
brief momenta—but now you have no mercy i i 
would lay down my life for you—I would give you 
all l hold most dear! Have you thought of what 
you are doing? Have you ever asked yourself at 
what a cost to me you have grat ified your caprice 7’> 
“ it 1s no caprice,” she answered him, haughtily, 
without a change on the beautiful white face as 
she spoke. 
“No caprice! True, I had forgotten,” he said; 
and as he looked down at her with his longing, 
miserable eyes, it struck nim then how heartless 
she must pe to wreak such a vengeance, and his 
voice died away In a sob of anguish too deep for 
words, “You to betray me thus!” lie cried In a 
moment—"you, Cecil!” 
The unutterable sadness and tenderness of his 
voice struck upon her heart, and she turned to 
him for a moment, all the rigidity fading from her 
face, and a warmth or passion replacing It. 
“ Even 11” she said, with a break In her voice, or 
pain, of triumph, of anguish and of Joy. 
“ If you had ever loved, you could not have 
done this thing,” he said in a low tone of pain. 
“Had yourowu lips not borne witness against 
you, 1 should not have believed It. Against all 
the world 1 should have hold you true I” 
The words stung her as no more violent reproach 
could have done, and she shivered as they rell 
upon her car. For a moment Bhe seemed as if 
she would have uttered some words of apology or 
atonement, but she cheokod them. 
“ Let me compllmunt you on your histrionic 
powers,” she said, shortly. “And now, If you 
will excuse me, I will wish you good night,” 
He stood for some momenta where she had left 
him, si untied as It were by this blow, which he had 
no power to resist, and which had fallen upon 
him with erushlug force. He had lost her; lost 
her completely and for ever, and in the anguish 
of that thought he could not realize the wanton 
cruelty of her conduct, the unwomanly revenge 
she had shown 1 
A mist-came betore bis eyes as be thought of 
that hope he had cherished which had been so 
rudely dispelled—of that love which had given 
him a few short hours of joy, purchased by a life¬ 
time or suffering, ne was a mau young andstrong, 
yet he shuddered and sank down on the couch as 
he remembered, bowing his head In a stupor of 
misery on the cushions where she had rested. 
now long he lay there ho never knew, but afler 
a time a friendly hand was laid upon his shoulder. 
He lifted his head and raised his eyes,,toll of a 
blind, vacant misery, to the pleasant kindly face 
of Mr. Edgar bent upon him full of concern and 
alarm, 
“ Lawrence, are you ill? What. Is the matter, 
old fellow ?” 
Dr. Carewe made no answer, but he sat upright, 
and pulled himself together. 
“We thought Cecil was with you,” said Mr. 
Edgar, gently. “ Mattie has gone to bed. Law¬ 
rence, let me get you something; I am sure you 
are 11L” 
“No, I want nothing,” was the quick answer. 
“Have patience with me for a moment, and I shall 
be all right.” 
He rose, and leaving the conservatory, went out 
on to the balcony beyond, pushing back his hair 
from his brow as the cold night air blew upon his 
face, and his breath came In the quick gasps of a 
man In pain. Mr. Elgar watched him in silent 
anxiety; he guessed that some terrible sorrow 
bad come to him—it was impossible to doubt that, 
and It seemed as if his bodily strength was unequal 
to the strain upon It—as if It would fall him In his 
necessity. 
Mr. Edgar knew how great that strength was; 
more than once he had proved the fearless cour¬ 
age of his friend during their Intercourse together. 
He had seen him arrest the headlong course of a 
pair of Infuriated horses; he had been by hls side 
when he had rescued a woman fainting with ter¬ 
ror from a crowd of roughs who would have 
.trampledher underfoot; he had been with him 
during a storm In the Atlantic, on board a thirty- 
ton yacht, and remembered bow bravely and 
cheerfully he had sustained the courage of the 
crew, and heeded nothing of the danger; and he 
had never seen him moved as now. 
The night air blowing fresh and chill revived 
him dispersing the mists from hls troubled brain, 
and awakening him to a sense of the blow which 
had fallen upon him. 
“Lawrence,” Mr. Edgar said, tenderly, hls own 
face pale and troubled, hls own voice unsteady, 
1 ‘what Is this that has come upon you ? will you 
not trust me, old friend 7 You know there Is 
nothing on earth I would not do for you.” 
Lawrence carewe stretched out hls hand and 
grasped hls friend’s with a pressure that spoke 
louder than any words. 
“I know it well, but you cannot help me in 
this, Edgar. It is my own tolly, and I deserve to 
1 suffer; but the blow was sudden and unexpected. 
Somehow,” he smiled—a smile sadder than the 
tears which stood In hls gray eyes—•• somehow I 
had been mad enough to hope—wild as that hope 
was; but! am awake now—I have come to my 
senses, and-” 
“ Cecil—she has refused you 7” said Mr. Edgar, 
coming suddenly to a sense or the situation. “ iiovv 
shameful, when she has encouraged you so evi¬ 
dently ! She Is just as heartless as-” 
“ Hush! hush! I cannot bear that, Edgar! 1 was 
ready enough to blame her a short while ago ; 
but now I can only leei-t.hat I love her.” 
“ Lawrence, old fellow l wish I could help you.” 
said Mr. Edgar, unsteadily, touched to the heart 
by the terrible grief which looked at him out of 
the weary, haggard eyes of his friend. *« Can I 
do nothing?” shall Mattie speak to her 7” 
»of what avail ? She gave me no undecided 
answer. I’m not the hrst man who had to give 
up the happiness of hls life, nor shall I be the 
last. And now good night, Edgar,” 
“Nay, lam going with you,” said Mr. Edgar, 
resolutely, and Dr. Carewe looked at him and 
laughed a low, bitter laugh of pain. 
•• There Is no river on my way home,” he said, 
bitterly. “ You need not be afraid, Edgar. 
As the two young men passed out of the dining¬ 
room, and stood for a moment in the hall, put¬ 
ting on their overcoats, neither of them saw a 
white face looking over the banisters, and two 
large eyes watching Dr. Carewe with a passion 
of pain and love in their depths. Then, as they 
opened the hall-door and went out, the white 
figure tied rapidly upstairs, and the next moment 
Cecil was Lying on her bed, struggling with a 
passion of tears which shook her slender frame 
from head to foot, and left her exhausted as a 
child. 
if Mr. Edgar could have seen her thus he might 
not have had suoli hard thoughts of her as those 
which filled hls heart, as, having left Lawrence 
Carewe at hls door, he drove rapidly in the direc¬ 
tion of hls own house. 
CHAPTER XVI. 
ENGAGEMENT. 
The gray dawn is breaking, and the light Is ap¬ 
pearing in the eastern sky, when Cecil Lester 
raises hereell trom her pillows and gazes vacantly 
around the room. How tho night has passed she 
cannot tell, for the passionate tears and sobs have 
exhausted her to stupor; and a8 she rises and stands 
still for a moment, trying to recall what has hap¬ 
pened, she staggers feebly, and Is forced to oatoh 
at a chair (or support. 
The hist two or three hours have been a com¬ 
plete blank to her. Whether she has slept, or 
whether she has fainted, she does not know. The 
reaction following on the great mental exoitement 
of the evening previous has come upon her. The 
strained nerves have given way, and she sinks 
down wearily on a great armchair which stands 
at her bedside, pushing back her hair from her 
brow wltb trembling fingers, and drawing each 
breath sadly and wearily. 
All Is Intensely still In her room and In the 
bouse. None of the household Is stirring yet; and 
as her hand falls heavily to her side again, she 
wonders dreamlngly why she still wears her even¬ 
ing dress. 
Then suddenly she remembers, and there comes 
berore her Lawrence Care we's faec, pale, agonized, 
reproachful, as she had seen It last night, and her 
head sinks again upon her hands as she tries to 
shut out the mute anguish of those gray eyes, 
and a shudder runs through her from head to 
foot. 
“What have I done—what have I done?” she 
murmured between her pale Ups. “Oh! what 
have I done?” 
And the answer flashes before her as If written 
In letters of fire: 
“ You have kept your vow—you have made him 
suffer—you have attained your vengeance! Are 
you not happy?” 
She rises from her seat, and paces up and down 
the room. Every pulse within her Is beating and 
throbbing. 
“ Wbat bas come to me?” she says, half aloud, 
as she paces to and fro, “what has come to me? 
Should I not rejoice? Why—why—why do I suffer 
like this?" 
She draws back tbe curtain, and opening one of 
the windows, leans out to the cool, fresh morning 
air. But It seems to give her no relief ; and turn 
lng away with a gesture of weary passion, she 
faces the truth at last. 
“ 1 love him—I love him-I!” she says, passion 
ately. “ And he, how will he think of me 7 How 
will he despise me now ? He hag seen me as I am • 
he knows me now l How long wiu hls love last- 
how long?” 
She breaks Into a laugh, hitter and forced, as 
one who laughs In a death-agony. The warmth of 
the room oppresses her. She feels choked and 
stilled—she sees still the grieved and wondering 
eyes—she hears again the broken, pleading voice! 
“ You to betray me thus!” It says, sadly. •• You 
Cecil I” 
“This Is tolly—tills is madness!” she says, after 
a pause. “ I have but kept my vow. ne deserves 
to suffer—let Mm do so! I will not grieve. He 
has brought It on himself. Oh: Rex.—Rex.,' you 
know now that I have kept my promise—at what 
a cost!” 
She goes to the looking-glass, sees her face Is 
colorless with the agony of tho past few hours. 
Its glory Is faded, Its loveliness gone. The great 
lustrous eyes look out at her, dim and weary. She 
turns away with a hitter laugh. 
“ Let It go,” she says, passionately—*• let It go! 
it has done Its work. I have no need to be pretty 
now!" 
A hard, bitter anguish sweeps over her face, and 
staggering forward, falls prone and helpless, her 
proud head bowed, her face white with the white¬ 
ness of death, her eyes closed like one dead. 
And thus her maid fluds her a few minutes later 
and stands aghast, at the sight of her young mis- 
tress stretched there, still wearing the evening- 
dress she had put on her the’night before; and 
glancing at the bed, she sees that it Is undisturbed. 
She does not summon any assistance. Some in¬ 
stinct teUs her that It will be more prudent not; 
for Mademoiselle, the maid la a wise woman In her 
day and generation, and she sees that tMs is no 
ordinary falntlng-flt. so she kneels down by her 
mistress, raises the beautiful bead on her arm, 
and applies restoratives. By-and-by Cecil’s senses 
return to her , the sweet lips quiver, the heavy 
eyelids are lifted, and she looks wonderlngly about 
her. 
" You are better ?” says tbe maid, gently, as she 
assists her to rise, and places her In a chair. 
“ Yes. I am better,” says Cecil, faintly. “ i do 
not know what made me faint. I.lsette, do not tell 
Miss Lester ; It would make her anxious.” 
“ You were overtired, perhaps,” suggests Lis- 
ette, trying to speak unconcernedly, but feeling 
her heart ache for the misery on Cecil’s face. 
" That long ride yesterday was too much for her." 
" Yes," said Cecil, eagerly, “ that was It, Llsette. 
But do not tell Miss Lester.” 
“ You may count upon my discretion,” said Lls¬ 
ette, quietly ; and though she kept her young mis¬ 
tress’s counsel, she “thought the more,” and 
puzzled her brain to discover the cause of her ill¬ 
ness with but little success. 
Meanwhile the preparations for Mattie Lester’s 
marriage went on apace, for the health of the 
bride-elect was completely re-established, and Mr 
Edgar had pleaded so eloquently for an “ early 
day " that Mattie had not had the heart to resist, 
hls entreaties. The wedding-day was fixed for 
earlj In autumn, and t he young couple were to 
spend the winter abroad, taking a long tour In the 
South of France and Italy. 
“ It will be far better that Miss Lester should not 
be exposed to the variations of this variable cli¬ 
mate of ours,” Dr. Carew had said. “ If I were 
you, Edgar, I would keep her abroad all the Win¬ 
ter ; mere are lovely spots In the South or France 
where you can spend your honeymoon, and Can¬ 
nes, Nice, and Mentone are all very gay during 
the winter season.” 
“ As If we shall want gaiety," said Edgar, gaily. 
But he took hls friend’s advice. A pretty villa 
was engaged at Cannes, which was to he their 
headquarters for the winter months, and Mattie 
set about tbe business of the trousseau with all 
expedition. 
Of course the wedding-outfit was to be a very 
costly and elaborate one ; Mattie’s ruture position 
demanded that it should be so. Mlsa Lester her¬ 
self was In a constant state of appointments with 
milliners and dressmakers, boot makers and jew¬ 
elers, until Mr, Edgar grew quite frantic at the 
demands on her time. 
“ I never see you now,” he grumbled, half comi¬ 
cally, pathetically, oue day, when they were alone. 
“ It is too bad, Mattie; there are scores of tMngs 
I want to consult you upon.” 
“ You will get quite enough of me by-and-by,” 
said tMattie, laughingly. What do you want to 
consult me on now, Edgar ? It seems to me that I 
have as many consultation as Mr. William Gull 
himself.” 
“Yes, with milliners and dressmakers,” said 
Mr. Edgar; smiling. “ Do you think I wont allow 
you to buy any more clotheB, Mattie, that it Is nec¬ 
essary you should have so many ? l never come 
here but you and Cecil are discussing patterns and 
styles, and shapes and makes. Just as If you don't 
look pretty in everything,” he added, fondly, as he 
drew her to hls side. 
“ That’s a very pretty and dutiful speech, she 
said, laughingly. •• What is your business, Edgar? 
I ouly have an hour to give you, as I am due at 
Eltse's at half-past twelve.” 
“There!" said Mr. Edgar, halt ruefully, half 
triumphantly. “ Is it not a true bill, convicted 
out of your own mouth, Miss Mai tie 7 Well, my 
business will not take more than half an hour. 
Have you chosen the bridesmaids’ lockets 7” 
“ Yes, those with the pearl sMeld and the initials 
In diamonds,” said Mattie.—To be continued. 
MAGAZINES FOR NOVEMBER. 
Appletons’ Journal.—Contents.— The Rights 
of Married Women; All Alone, a story (in Two 
Parts-Part Second); The Influence of Art In 
Dally Life; Part IV. Beauty; The Growth of 
Sculpture; Literary Success a Hundred Years 
Ago ; A Colorado Sketch; The Life and I asslon of 
Hector Berlioz; The New Renaissance; or. The 
Gospel of Intensity; Guizot’s Private Life; Love’s 
Heralds; Some Current Novels; Story of an Hon¬ 
est Man: Stillwater Tragedy ; The Grandlsstmes ; 
Salvage; WMte Wings; The Wellfields; Trouble¬ 
some Daughters; The Confessions of a Frivolous 
Girl; The Worst Boy In Town ; Anecdotes of Eng¬ 
lish Rural Life; Editors Table: An Art Discus¬ 
sion, New American Comedies, Further about In¬ 
finitesimal Doses; The MudTog Papers; The 
Peasant In Art and Literature. 
Among the penalties wMch, according to popu¬ 
lar report, fame of any kind is sure to exact, one 
of the heaviest, perhaps, Is that which the suc¬ 
cessful author has to pay when the juvenile or 
other feeble productions which he himself has 
consigned to oblivion are dragged forth without 
hls consent from their half-forgotten Mdtng- 
plaoes, and exposed to the scorching light of hls 
later-achieved celebrity. There are few authors, 
probably, even the most successful, who have not 
at one time or another written things which they 
would willingly have the public overlook; and 
their bitterest foe In cases of tMs kind Is the fa¬ 
natical admirer or speculating “bibliographer ’ 
who, together, are rapidly becoming one of the 
greatest pests of literature. The latest sufferer 
trom this sort or posthumous ptuorlztng is Dickens, 
No other author, probably, of real genius and 
power, ever took a more lenient view of bis own 
productions than Dickens, and It might ralrly be 
Inferred that anytMng that he choose to leave un¬ 
utilized had better be left In the obscurity to 
which It had sunk. Not eo, however, have hls 
mercantile-minded admirers been willing to admit. 
Even Forster made use In hls biography of every 
scrap of unpublished writing upon which he could 
lay Ms hands. Including the foolish preface to the 
first edition of “American Notes,” which Ms 
friends had wisely Induced Dickens to suppress; 
and now In “The Mudfog Papers ” we have a 
glimpse of the lowest deep which the profane eye 
of the curiosity hunter can reach.—Editor’s Table 
In Appletons’ Journal for November. 
The Atlantic Monthly.— Contents:—Tbe Por¬ 
trait of a Lady, l.-v, ; The Jew’s Girt, a. d. 1200 ; 
Tbe Silk Industry tn America; Ills Best; Storms 
of Autumn, Georgies or Virgil, Book I., Verses 
311-334; Intimate Life of a Noble German Family 
Part HI; The Future of Weather Foretelling; a 
Sleeping City; Philosophy and Apples; a Search 
for the Pleiades; Reminiscences of Washington, 
via.. The Tyler Administration, 1843-1S4S; North 
Wind In Autumn; What la a Fact? Letters and 
Notes from England: Mr. Aldrich's Fiction; Re¬ 
cent Poetry; Mahaffy’s Greek Literature; Shakes¬ 
peare et l’Antlqulte; An Englishman’s England; 
A True Republic; The Contributors’ Club, 
The Future of Weather Fokktblung.— In 
no other part of her wide realm has Science done 
so little for the good of man or her own fame as in 
the department of meteorology, in the solid earth 
her prophecies have long had a high value, In the 
rar-off heavens her empire Is affirmed, but in the 
unstable air between these two well-possessed 
provinces there is a region that is not yet sub¬ 
jugated. Around the border of the domain of 
meteorology some gains to the cause of law and 
order have indeed been made: we control the light¬ 
ning, we are able to track a clearly defined storm 
for days on Us path, and can help the sailor to 
knowledge that often enables Mm to escape its 
clutches when It assaJls him on the deep sea ; but 
as for foretelling the weather lu any proper sense, 
we have not yet attained to tt. is It attainable? 
can we hope to compass the conditions of our 
days so that we may sow and reap, travel, feast, 
or make war In weather of our choice? TMs Is, 
after all, perhaps the most interesting of t he ques¬ 
tions that t he future history of science must deter¬ 
mine. But though the perfect answer Is not to he 
given at present, there are some things in the 
existing conditions of our science that make us 
hopeful that we are but at the beginning of 
weather forecasting 
There have been two distinct scientific efforts at 
weather foretelling, as distinguished from the 
current survival of the modes of thought of an¬ 
cient ages that are Introduced In our ordinary 
weather prophecies, that, undertaken by Admiral 
Fltzroy, in England, and that, begun In this coun¬ 
try by the United States Signal corps, under the 
control of the late General Myer. Both of these 
have madethetr basis of tbe simple principle that 
weather always has a history; that it means con¬ 
ditions that pass from one region to another by 
certain laws of movement and at a certain rate. 
TMs general fact was long ago recognized by me- 
