THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
A* 
fiterarjr UtisteUaug, 
A THANKSGIVING PARTY. 
Banks and liie wife consulted 
One bright November day. 
Planning a splendid dinner 
In a pleasant, airy way. 
“ We'll have a grand Thanksgiving, 
Said Banker “ And Polly, dear, 
You get the guests together, 
And I’ll provide the cheer." 
Then BankB, with heart o’erilowing, 
Said, “ Now’s the time, my dear. 
To ask one’s wife'B relations, 
So let them all bo here. 
Yes. ask them all, my darling; 
Your husband’s not the man 
To stop half-way in making 
A pleasant family plan." 
So Polly asked her people— 
And they were not a few— 
Papa, mamma and brothers, 
And all her little sisters, too. 
These brought their little children, 
A laughing, romping crowd— 
And. in their after-dinner speech. 
Banks really felt quite *' proud.” 
Yet tnrough it all a shadow 
Into his bosom stole; 
He knew that bills were coming in; 
They paralyzed his 60 ul! 
He knew that Mother Pippling 
Was whispering good advice 
In Polly’s ear, and, somehow. 
That wasn’t very nice. 
He knew the romping children 
Had done him damage dire 
(For Banks had dainty furniture 
As any could desire): 
But still the guests were merry; 
The dinner went" off well,” 
In spite of many vexing things 
Which one don’t care to tell. 
And when, at last, 'twas over, 
And every guest gone home. 
The tumbled house quite still again, 
Aud reBtiug-time was come. 
Sweet Mrs. Banks said, cheerily, 
“ My dear, how kind of them 
To come to us! Though mother”— 
(Banks softly coughed ” Ahem !") 
“ Yes, mother noticed, bless her !— 
One slight omission, dear; 
She said Thanksgiving dinners 
Without one * thank ’ were queer, 
I know you don’t say grace, dear; 
But don’t it seem to you 
That to give thanks at such a time 
Is what one ought to do ?” 
He fell into a reverie: 
“ You’re right!" he sighed at last; 
“ Thank Heavsn, the thing is over; 
They're gone, and all iB past!” 
And so, in simple language. 
By that good husband Banks 
The grand Thanksgiving dinner 
Was crowned by hearty thanks. 
[OMc St'ite Journal. 
\ 
WEAKER THAN A WOMAN. 
CHAPTER XX. 
A auxEL day dawned for Felix Lonsdale—a day 
when the sun shone so brightly and with such heat 
that grass, flowers, and leaves withered beneath 
his fervent rays, when a golden haze seemed to He 
over the land, and Mie brooks ran slowly over the 
pebbles beneath them—a day when the wind was 
still, and not the faintest whisper of a breeze stir¬ 
red the leaves or blossoms-a cruel day. He re¬ 
membered It all through his life, for the warm sun¬ 
light seemed suddenly to change Into a are that 
burned him, everything bright and talr appealed 
to wither before Ms eyes. it. was a day which 
brought him a pain that never quite left him while 
life lasted. 
He was in his office In the High Streeb-the office 
that had once home such signs of prosperity— 
where the great Iron safes had been filled with 
deeds, and huge bill-files had been loaded with 
documents—where the tables had been strewn with 
papers and letters—where busy clerks had passed 
the day, all too short tor the work they had to 
do—where people were always going and coming 
with the air or having Important business on hand. 
It was all so different now. One by one clerks 
had gone—there was nothing to do. One by one 
the neighboring squires and fanners had with¬ 
drawn their business from the old office. There 
was so little to transact now that Felix could man¬ 
age with one clerk, still he had hope. He felt 
sure that hi time this state of things must Improve. 
When people began to think calmly, they would 
know that his father was Innocent of that which 
had been imputed to Win. 
Felix was seated In his office. It was too warm 
for business—nd one came in. There were no mes¬ 
sages, no interviews—ho had nothing professional 
to do. The clerk was busy copying a deed, and 
Felix was making the most of his time by writing 
an essay upon the “ Inequalities of British Law." 
Suddenly the postman's knock was heard in the 
quiet street, where on that scorching day oven 
the very houses seemed to sleep. The sound did 
not Interest Felix; he. expected no letter. Violet 
seldom sent, him a little note; when she did so, 
it. was like the (Bleat cnrdlul lo him—he worked the 
better tor It,—he was happier and brighter. Per¬ 
haps, it she had known how happy those letters 
made him. she would have written ottener. 
Presently, to his surprise, came the sharp, sud¬ 
den knock of the postman at his own door. The 
clerk quickly disappeared, and then returned and 
placed a letter in his hands—a lady's letter, with a 
faint odor of violets, llo opened It and looked at 
the signature—" Martha Hivye,” 
It was from Violet's mother. What could she 
have to say to him ? It was an Invitation proba¬ 
bly. He put aside his essay, and began to read the 
note. 
“ Mv Dear Felix :—That which I have to say 
will pain you, I know; hut I cannot help it—It 
must he said. The engagement between you and 
my daughter must come to an end. The circum¬ 
stances under which I gave my consent are quite 
different from those subsisting at present. Your 
prospects have quite altered, if you marry my 
daughter now, you cannot keep her In anything 
like the position In which she lives even at 
present; and I am not willing to see her become a 
mere domestic drudge. Mr. Haye and myself wish 
the engagement to end at once, as under no circum¬ 
stances could we consent to the marriage. Violet 
sends her love, and desires me to say that all this 
Is written by her wish, and that she hopes always 
to be your friend. She Is going away on a long 
visit to one of her relatives. Hoping you will see 
the necessity for this step, I am yours very sin¬ 
cerely, Martha Haye.” 
lie read it through, at first with a feeling and 
conviction that it must lx; a practical joke, then 
with a deadly assurance that they were going to 
take Violet from him. The handsome worn face 
grew deadly pale; a dazed dim look came Into his 
eyes; a great tearless, voiceless sob rose to his lips; 
the sunlight, seemed to change to a. blood-red rnlst, 
and the sound like the roar of distant waters filled 
his ears. He sat with the letter open in hts hand, 
dazed as a man who had received a terrible blow. 
How long he sat he never knew; it seemed to 
him that years of agony, years of torture, rolled 
over his head. He was literally stunned. He had 
borne all his sorrows with a brave strong heart be¬ 
cause he had % true hope, a beautiful warm love. 
To take that from him was to leave him with no 
ground to stand on. 
Slowly thought, and reason came back to him. 
He rose, st.Ul with the open letter in his hands, 
with awhile set look on his handsome haggard 
young face which might have touched a heart of 
stone. He took his hat from the stand, and the 
clerk looked alter him with a terrified gaze, won 
dering what could have happened to him. 
“There was bad news In the letter,” he said, 
"but where has he gone with It open in hts hand 
like that ?” 
More than one person whom Felix Lonsdale met. 
asked themselves the same thing, more than one 
spoke to him; hut he did not hear—he walked on, 
looking straight before him, hts eyes tlxed on va¬ 
cancy, ills white set face without change or ex¬ 
pression. until he reached the Limes. What lie 
suffered as he passed the old land-marks, the trees, 
the stiles, the lilac-hushes at the gate, was known 
only to Heaven. 
He went straight into the house, and Mrs. Haye 
herself was the first person that he met. 
She was half frightened when her eyes fell upon 
Ms face; so unlike was It to any face she had ever 
seen, so changed by his great woe, she could hard¬ 
ly recognize It. She held out her hand to him with 
some commonplace words of welcome. He did not 
hear them. 
“ Come in here,” he said; and, taking her arm 
he led her Into the nearest room. "Tell nip," lie 
asked, •• did you write this ?" 
There was nothing to be said but the truth. 
In all her life Mrs. Haye had never been more 
frightened. She had to deal with a, desperate 
man. 
•* Yes, I wrote it, Felix; it was wisest, kindest, 
best.” 
“ And you say that violet Is willing—that violet 
knows about it ?” 
“ I wrote it with her express sanction,” she- re¬ 
plied. 
"It Is false! I would not believe you if you 
swore It! I will not believe It,! Heaven is not so 
cruel!’’ 
“There is no cruelty In It,” said Mrs. Haye; •• It 
is what must be done.” 
" Must he done! Do you know that she Is my 
lire itself, that 1 have no life apart from her, no 
hope that does not begin and end with her 7 It you 
take her from me, you leave a dead body—she is 
my soul itself I” 
He paused, for the passion of his words over¬ 
came him. How was he to tell this woman what 
Violet, his beautiful love, was to him7 How weak 
and Impotent words were! 
" 1 know that you are very fond of her," Mrs. 
Haye said gently; "Still It cannot he—It eannot 
indeed." 
" Will you tell me why you have done this cruel 
deed ? what is your motive 7” 
" Because you eannot afford to marry; you must 
not burden yourself with a wile.” 
“Surely 1 know best. I Can work—I do work. 
T would work night aud day, with one hope before 
me of making my darling my wife. She loves me, 
site knows what trouble lias come to us, she Is wil¬ 
ling to wait, a tew months longer, and then to share 
my lot, it will be brighter In time; everything 
will come right for us yet. 1 have no tear." 
«i am not willing. Her father Is not willing—we 
see no use, no sense tn the best and brightest years 
of her life being wasted In watting for a marriage 
that, when It conies, will he the worst thing that 
could happen to her. We are not Willing; and 1 
tell you frankly that violet sees matters as we do. 
She wished me to say all this-” 
“ Do you know what you are doing to me—what 
you are taking from me 7 Do you understand,” he 
cried hoarsely, " that you are killing me 7” 
•* I am sorry, of course—It Is very hard, I know— 
but such a life as you offer Violet would kill her.” 
“ 1 do not believe It I” he cried. " You changed 
to me when my fortune changed. You were wil¬ 
ling enough to give me my darling when you 
thought that 1 was the son of n rich man. i shall 
he rich again In time. I have seen the change In 
you; you have given me cold looks for kind ones— 
you have been barely civil where you had been 
warmly cordtaL 1 understand It—you love Mam¬ 
mon. Wealth, rank, luxury, are more to you than 
the heart of an honest man. But tny darling Is not 
like you, and 1 will receive the statement you have 
made from no Ups but hers." 
“ My daughter is not at home, and you wfil gain 
nothing from seeing her.” 
“ But you cannot do as you propose; she Is en¬ 
gaged to me—she is my promised wife—no man or 
woman Uvlng has the power to break such a bond. 
She could not break It herself.” 
‘You will find you are mistaken there,” said 
Mrs. Haye. And then Felix saw plainly that it was 
useless to say more to her—there was something of 
animosity In her tone, lie left her, still holding 
the open letter In his hand. 
" I am sorry for him,” said Mrs. Haye, when de¬ 
scribing tlie scene to her husband: " but what can 
we do ? There is one t hing that I am really thank¬ 
ful for—he has not the least. Idea about Sir Owen. 
1 am not nervous, but I do beUeve that If he sus¬ 
pected what has happened he would kill him.” 
As Felix left the house to return home. Jennie, a 
smart housemaid, who had often opened the door 
for him, and who thought him a noble-looking gen¬ 
tleman, ran after Mm. 
“ Do forgive me sir.” she said; “ hut you have 
always been so good to me. and I know all about It. 
I am so sorry for you, sir. that I cannot sleep for 
thlnklDg of it.” 
He tried to look indifferent, to smile, hut he could 
not; his pride and self-control broke down at these 
pitying words, 
“Tell me what you know, Jennie.” he said. 
“They have sent her away, sir, so that you 
should not see her and persuade her. They have 
kept It quite a secret where she is gone—no one 
knows—hut I stole Into her room and saw her trunk 
addressed to North Alton, a nd I know that Mrs. 
Haye has a cousin living at North Alton. She Is 
gone there, sir, and nowhere else." 
“Thank you, Jennie,” he said; “ you have prov¬ 
ed yourself a friend.” 
Jennie would not take the sovereign he offered 
her, and the sympathy he read in her face cheered 
him. 
“It will be all right when I see Miss Haye," he 
said. “ They have over-persuaded her. She loves 
me—and T trust her.” 
CHAPTER XXI. 
Felix sent, his clerk to Vale House with a note 
saying that the family were not to he alarmed If he 
did not return that evening, as he had some Im¬ 
portant business to transact, in a town some miles 
distant; and Darcy Lonsdale, who was too 111 then 
to feel an interest in anything professional, feebly 
blessed him as he listened. 
“He works hard,” said Kate as she read the 
note; then she sighed, thinking how different mat¬ 
ters would ha ve been had Felix loved Evelyn in¬ 
stead of violet. The Hayes had stood aloof from 
them In their troubles; they had expressed hut lit¬ 
tle sympathy, and Mrs. Lonsdale felt it keenly, 
violet had not been to see them as Eve Lester had 
been; and Kate sighed again as she thought of the 
difference between the two girls. 
North Alton was quite forty miles from Lllford. 
FelLx knew that the name of Mrs. ITaye’s cousin 
was Miss Western. He had often heard violet 
laugh about her mother’s cousin, who was an old 
maid. He said to himself that, he would go tn 
North Alton by the night train; then he could see 
Violet. In the morning, and be at home again In the 
evening. He Utth dreamed that people looked at 
Mm earnestly as he went to the station. His hand¬ 
some young face bore the Impress of unutterable 
sorrow; Ms eyes were dim and shadowed, with 
great dark circles round them; Ills Ups were pale 
and trembling. He had never thought of taking 
food—he had not even drunk a glass of water to 
cool Ms parched Ups. So Ul. so sorrow-stricken, so 
unlike the handsome, gallant, noble Felix of the 
day before was he that Mrs. Lonsdale would hardly 
have known him had she seen him—he looked like 
the ghost of himself. 
When he stood before violet she uttered a cry of 
sorrow and dismay. He had left, the hotel to go to 
her aunt’s house, and met her Just as. dressed for a 
walk, she was leaving the Uttle front garden. One 
of Miss Western’s manias was early walking. He 
waited until violet hud gone some little distance 
down the road, and than he followed her. She 
gave a little cry, and stood silent and shame- 
stricken before him. Ue saw the sorrow, but not 
the shame, and the sorrow misled him. The 
dreadful livid pallor, the stony mask, fell from his 
face as a snow-wreath melts In the warm light of 
the sun. 
“ My darling.” he cried, •• I knew it was false—I 
knew that you had not said It 1 Oh, thank Heaven, 
thank Heaven 1" He leaned, pale and breathless, 
against the. trunk of an elm-tree. “ I beUeved In 
you, my darling.” he said. “ 1 knew that you had 
not sanctioned It; you could not—you hold myUfe 
In your hands. And yet why did you come here ,' 
Why did you not write to me ? Speak to me. vio¬ 
let, for by tho heaven above me I swear that I am 
going mad I” 
She was frightened, scared, at the wild eyes, the 
hoarse voice, the face so full of pain. She dared 
not have said to Mm—'“I have made my choice, 
Felix, between love and gold." And. wretched 
as she was. though she had given him up. and 
never meattt to marry him. her whole heart went 
out to him with greater warmth and greater love 
than it had ever gone before, she held out her 
hands to him, hut started at the touch of his; they 
burned her Uke fire. 
*• You are making yourself 111, Felix.” she said. 
•• Ill I” he repeated—and his laugh was more ter¬ 
rible to her than any words. •• How would you 
feet Violet, bad any one tried to tear the living, 
beating heart. Horn your body ? Oh. my darling, 
tell nxe it is not true—tell me so, for Heaven’s sake 1 
say that It. is false—that they persuaded you, urged 
you, wrote without your knowledge! Speak to me 
quickly, for I am going mud!” 
she was only a woman—at the very best a weak 
one—and she loved eveu after the weak fashion in 
which some women love, she could not endure 
the sight of Ms pain. She dared not tell him the 
truth; she did what weak women so often do—she 
temporized. 
“ 1 thought It best, FelLx, to—to give you some 
years free that you might work the better, 
should not like to he a burden to you.” 
He drew a deep breath, like one relieved from an 
intolerable load, from an unbearable pain. 
“Is that all? Oh, my darling, my generous, 
noble Violet, Is that all 7 I will not reproach you, 
hut why have you given me this terrible fright 7 I 
have been almost dead. I am fifty years older with 
these horn’s of horrible pain. Why did you not, tell 
me, sweet, what you dreaded 7 There Is nothing to 
fear, Violet. I am so strong when I think or you 
that I could work by night and by day yet never 
feel fatigued. Such love as mine puts nerve Into a 
man's right, hand. Oh, violet sweet,, you need not 
fear! You shall have a home? as beautiful as love 
can make It. You shall have a life so easy and so 
free from care that when it ends you will look buck 
lu wonder to see how it has passed. You shall 
never know pain or fatigue that r can save you 
from. You shall be served and waited upon and 
attended to unceasingly.” 
She made him no answer, hut her hands touched 
his gently. 
“ A burden!” he repeated. “ You were afraid of 
being a burden to me! Oh. violet, life of my life, I 
ought to laugh at you! Sweet burden that I would 
fain carry until death claims me! Would to Heaven 
that the time were near when I could make the 
dear burden all mine!” 
Still she had not the courage to look at him and 
say, “t love you, hut I love riches better—I have 
chosen them instead of you.” She had not the 
courage to say it tn that hour. She was frightened 
even to remember It. 
“ You will never feet this fear again, Violet, will 
you 7” he said, speaking more like himself than he 
had yet. “ It Is so absurd—yet perhaps It Is natu¬ 
ral to a sensitive mind like yours. T am sane now, 
but I have been rnad. Does my face alarm you? 
You need only laugh at It, sweet. I have forgotten 
to eat and to drink since your mother’s letter came. 
The sun was shining brightly and warmly, hut It. 
seemed to change all at once Into a scorching fire¬ 
ball, and I went mad. Yet I did not lose my faith 
In you, Violet. I knew that you would never have 
spoken as your mother did, never have written as 
she did; 1 can forgive her; it Is only natural that 
she should think so much of you. No man could 
seem good enough for you. I am not good enough, 
but I love you so dearly that my great love stands 
In the place of great riches or great rank.” 
still she uttered no word—she dared not tell him 
the truth. 
“ You are strangely silent, Violet,” he said. 
Have I- frightened you ?” 
“ No," she replied; " hut you have startled me— 
you look so 111. Felix, and so unlike your own self.’’ 
“ No wonder, my darling,” he returned. “ But I 
will again—I will remember how sensitive you are.” 
She looked up with a smile—so sirens smile at 
the men they lure to destruction. 
“Felix,” she said, “you should not love me so 
much, dear—you know what I have always told 
you about idols of clay." 
“ I cannot, help It; my mission In life is to love 
you.” 
“ 1 eannot ask you to come in and see me,” she 
said. •• Miss Western does not like gentlemen; she 
never receives visitors.” 
“ My darling, I must hasten home,” he told her. 
“ But you have not informed me why you came 
here, Violet.” 
- Mamma wished me to come. 1 was not quite 
strong—I wanted a change.” 
“ And why did you not write to me, sweet?” he 
continued. 
she paused one moment, should she tell him or 
not ? No—she could not; she loved him too much, 
and she was somewhat ashamed. She found an 
excuse; there was no need tor It to he a very good 
one to satisfy him. 
" 1 knew you were true to me, Violet,” he said. 
“ I knew that it was your mother who persuaded 
you—who had wrttteu that cruel letter without 
your sanction, perhaps without your knowledge.” 
•• 1 knew that she was going to write It,” Violet, 
told him—hut. he was not afraid even then. No 
man Is so completely blind as a man in love. 
•• Then you sanctioned It to try me—you sanc¬ 
tioned it to see how much I loved you ? Listen, vio¬ 
let sweet—I shall go home and work as no man ever 
did, I shall begin at once to get, your llouse ready 
for you—I shall wait no longer—and when It is 
ready, if your mother does not give her consent, I 
shall run away with you. Do you hear, my darl¬ 
ing ; 1 shall do as Jock o* Hazledean did.” 
She laughed faintly. Even then she had not the 
courage to say, “ The tetter was all true, and I 
have given you up of my ow n accord.” Even then 
she deceived Mm by her look and smile, If not by 
her words. 
•• I musr not stay longer," he said. “ l shall go 
hack home a different man. It Is a terrible thing 
tn know that one’s fate lies altogether iu the hands 
of a single creature; but. when they are such true, 
sweet hands as yours, Violet, there Is nothing to 
tear. I will go hack now to my work, which is 
sweetened by tny love. Darling, say one© more 
for me the words I love so dearly—' 1 belong to 
you, Felix.’ ” 
She had always said them before while looking 
up at him w ith an arch sweet smile, her beautiful 
eyes seeking his; now the fair face drooped with a 
burning tlusli. She was nervous, w eak, and guilty, 
hut not guilty enough to repeat those false words. 
“I am afraid Miss Western will find you here, 
Felix,” she said; “ If sire does, she will send for 
mamma.” 
“Are you so closely guarded, my darling7” he 
laughed. “Ah, well, never mind! It will not be 
for long, t shall hasten home; I shall prepare 
your house; and when it Is ready I will take you If 
all the world should try to prevent me, for you are 
my own. I shall go home happy because 1 trust In 
you aud believe in you. I shall never believe that 
you have changed to me until you tell me so your¬ 
self. uood-by, my darling love of my heart—good- 
by l” 
She watched him as he went dow n the high-road, 
and the Impulse was strong upon her to call him 
back and say to Mm that she had given him up— 
that the life of love and struggle that he offered 
her had no charm for her—that she had weighed 
both, and had deliberately given the preference to 
wealth—that he must go home and learn to forget 
her. 
