THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
fcbe sea was rough, violet was a hah sailor, and 
when she heard the surf beating on the shore, she 
begged of her husband to delay t heir passage at 
least twenty-four hours, she was so afraid, she 
said, of a rough sea. 
He laughed. It was all nonsense—the sea would 
not hurt her. No one ever heard of an accident to 
ithe Dover and Calais boats. 
She allowed that; but. the passage made her 
very ill. Would he not wait ? 
“If you are ill, you will soon he well again; the 
whole passage does not occupy two hours. You 
must bear It as other people do.” 
“ I did not think you could he so unkind to me, 
Owen,” she said piteously. 
“I am not unkind; but I warn you fairly that 
I have very little patience with the caprices of 
women, as lor their own nonsense, I should never 
bear 1 1 . a ma n cannot be expected to go on honey- 
moonlng forever. 'I hot kind of thing is all over 
noiv, and we may as well take our proper places 
Mine Is to be master—and I tell .you frankly that l 
intend to be. obeyed Make up your mind to that, 
and we shall get along all right. Thwart me, and 
we shall not agree." 
They were not very pleasant words for a bride of 
only a few weeks to hear, she thought over them 
for some time. 
“ Felix would never have spoken to me in that 
fashion,” she said to herself. *• But J must obey 
There Is no help lor It —he Is supreme master.” 
she was very tlJ crossing the Channel; but Sir 
Owen only laughed. Seasickness was a sort of jest 
to him. lie never dreamed that bis young wife 
would resent the laughter, but she did. When they 
landed at Dover, she would not speak to him. He 
might be master, she said to herself, a hundred 
times over; but no man should laugh at her. 
“ You are sulking with me,” he said laughingly. 
“ Ah, my Lady Chevenlx, you will find that a losing 
game! 1 do not think there Is a person In all En¬ 
gland -man or woman —who can sulk so long or so 
thoroughly as I can myselfand that she found 
to be perfectly t rue. 
Neither of them had the faintest idea or self-con¬ 
trol—if was a thing unknown w either ot them—so 
they reached Cars wood without exchanging a word 
on tiic journey. Their coming home was quite un¬ 
expected ; consequently there was no rejoicing. It 
was night too, and cold. Sir Owen was not well 
pleased at their reception, although he had express¬ 
ly forbidden any one to write. 
But Violet s spirits rose again when she found 
herself in the magnificent, mansion. After all, 
her husband might bo coarse and bad-tempered, 
but she was mistress of those superb rooms. 
This was her house. She was to live In the midst, 
of all this luxury, with troops of liveried servants 
at her call. Still she did not say to herself now 
that it was all here, she was beginning to un¬ 
derstand that for her everything depended on the 
humor of her husband, it was not all here, she 
was so pleased that Sir Owen recovered his good- 
humor, and the Urst evening They spent together 
atGarswood was perhaps the happiest they ever 
had there. 
On the morrow sir Owen found a hundred things 
that required Ills attention; nevert heless he was 
thoughtful about bis young wife. 
“ You will like to see your mother and father, 
violet.” he said. “ order the carriage when you 
like. I cannot go with you, but 1 will come for 
you. You bought some presents for them, did you 
not?" 
“ Yes,’ she answered. 
She looked wistfully at him. It was her first 
visit since her marriage, and she would have liked 
him to be with her; but she was beginning to un¬ 
derstand that she must not Interfere with Ills ar¬ 
rangements. she could not- resist saying 
“I should enjoy it so much more If you were 
with me, Owen,” 
“ Oh, no. you would not!” he laughed carelessly. 
“You only fancy so. You and your mother will 
have so much to talk about that I really could not 
stand It,, you know—I could not. Indeed. 1 will be 
there in the evening, arid will drive you back 
home.” 
She knew that to say more would be quite use¬ 
less, so she made the best of the arrangement. 
After all, there were many delights before her. 
She had a superb costume, trimmed with costly 
sable—one of the great Worth’s masterpieces—and 
she was to wear that for the first time. Her heart 
beat as she thought of the pleasure or driving in 
her magnificent carriage through the streets of 
Lilford, dressed In her Parisian costume. 
“ I hope that I shall meet Lady Itolfe,” she said, 
“ just for the pleasure of cut I ing her.” 
She drove at once to the Limes, and was met 
with the kindest of welcomes. 
“ 1 should have gone to meet you, violet, had I 
known that you were coming," said Mrs. Hayo, 
But Lady chevenlx thought that under the cir¬ 
cumstances it was Just as well she had not come. 
They went to the drawing-room together. Fran¬ 
cis H aye was more or an Invalid t han usual that 
day. and his daughter, on hearing that he was 
asleep, would not have him disturbed. 
“ Lei us have a long talk, Mamma,” she said. 
“ I have so much to tell yon.” 
They sat down to exchange, confidences, and 
Mrs, Haye almost trembled with delight as she 
looked at her daughter. 
“ How well you look, Violet!” she said. “ What 
a superb dress, and how it bceomesyou ; Are you 
very happy, my dear?" 
“As happy another people, i suppose, Mamma. 
I am very rich—and that must mean that 1 ain 
very happy. It will take me a whole day to show 
you my dresses and Jewels." 
Will you stand up, Violet? I feci quite sure 
that you have grown; or Is It the new style of 
dress that suits you ?” 
violet stood up. 
“ 1 have grown, Mamma.” she answered. “ You 
know I am only Just twenty; 1 may grow taller 
still ” 
“ You are quite tall enough to be graceful, my 
dear,” said Mrs. Haye; and her eyes lingered j 
proudly on the lovely face with Its dainty bloom, 
so young, so fresh and fair, and on the graceful 
figure that was shown to such advantage by the 
costly dress that swept the ground. “ You have 
improved very much, Violet.” she added. 
J n that she was right; Violet had a grace and 
refinement that ga ve her an additional charm. 
I hey talked long, ami not unhappily. Presently 
violet produced her presents. Mrs. Haye went 
into a rapt ure about a dress of Genoa velvet and 
some superb Mechlin lace. After that violet be¬ 
gan to Inquire about her old Mends. 
Mrs Haye had many little facts to relate about 
all or them. 
“Mamma,” said Lady Chevenlx, with a slight 
fl ush on her face, “ what do they say In Lilford 
about my marriage and me’.’" 
“ "’hat can they say. my dear? Every one en¬ 
vies you. every one talks about tuts wonderful 
marriage.” 
' iolei took up t he rich tassels of her dress and 
played with them. She never raised her eyes to 
her mother's face. 
“ But do they—I mean have they said that I did 
wrong ?” 
•• w rang!” cried Mrs. Haye. “ Why should they ? 
Which of them would not have done the same 
thing ? Which of them would not be pleased to do 
t he same wrong?" 
Lady Chevenlx looked relieved, 
i tvas afraid they would say 1 had acted unfair¬ 
ly. she said slowly. •• Mamma, how are the Lons- 
daies ? How Is Felix ?’’ 
There was a brief silence before the question 
was answered, and then Mrs. Haye told her won¬ 
derful story. 
“ You have never heard of Bitch a change of for¬ 
tune. violet, - she said; “ it is almost as wonderful 
as your own; I can hardly understand it. The 
Lonsdales seem to have all the business ot tbe 
lowa notv. and ol t-ie county too. They have—I 
cannot tell how many clerks; they give grand 
dinner-parties; and, what seems to me stranger 
still, they are frequently invited to Bramber Tow¬ 
ers.” 
•• We Shall visit, there. I suppose,” remarked Lady 
chevenlx. ■* 1 am pleased Indeed to hear air this, 
Mamma; it any family ever did deserve good for¬ 
tune, they did. They are recognized by the county- 
now, i suppose?” 
“ Yes, quite. Lady Kolfe has taken them up. I 
hear ot nothing but the Lonsdales.” 
There was silence again for some minutes, and 
then Violet said slowly— 
“And Felix. Mamma—have you seen him since 
my marriage ?” 
“ No, not once, my dear,” was Mrs. Haye’s reply. 
“I need hardly say that he has never been here.” 
“Do they say—do you know, if he thought 
much of It?" Did he make a great trouble of it, 
Mamma ?” she asked. 
“Icannot say,” replied the cautious mother; 
• 1 ha ve never heard the subject mentioned.” 
Lady Chevenlx was silent again. Alter a little, 
while she said quickly— 
•• I should like to ask you one question more. 
Does Felix-has he found any one else to care 
about yet?” 
I have not heard so violet, my dear, you 
have every blessing the world can give; do not 
think about him. And, If you will take my ad¬ 
vice, you will not talk about him—.Sir Owen might 
not like it.” 
“I shah be careful. Mamma-1 shall not. speak 
of him ; but I wanted to hear ubouthim just once." 
She said no more then, but as site sat in the 
familiar room she thought a great deal of him; 
It was Impossible to help It. The quick eyes uoted 
flow completely every trace of hint had been re¬ 
moved ; the books that ho had given her, the 
pictures, were all gone. 
“They need not have banLsiied everything," she 
said to herself. 
Presently her father awoke; he was delighted 
beyond measure to see ber looking so well and so 
beautiful. 
Later on sir Owen came, and they spent a pleas¬ 
ant hour together. But there was a dreamy look 
on the lovely face, a softened light In the clear 
eyes; she could not help thinking of the past 
bright girlish life that had been so simply happy. 
Felix had been part of that life, and she could not 
help remembering him when she thought of It. 
she enjoyed herself, she laughed and talked, she 
told gay anecdotes of her triumphs in Paris; but 
as she quitted the house, she carefully avoided 
going near the bare Iliac-bushes, or fingering for a 
moment at the garden gate. As she drove home 
she said to herself— 
I do not think I shall go to the Limes very 
often. After all, the pain Is as great as the plea¬ 
sure.” 
But she did not own what the pain was. 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
During the next few days Lady Chevenlx was 
occupied In arranging all the beautiful ornaments, 
pictures, and statues she had brought with her 
from abroad. Amongst the treasures of her girl¬ 
hood was a small rosewood writing-desk. On it 
she had written all her love-letters ; In It she kept 
every love- letter she had received; a nd she remem¬ 
bered now that slit' had not, destroyed them before 
her marriage, and that she ought to have done so, 
She was alone In the sumptuous room that was her 
boudoir. The apartment was perfect In Its way. 
and the golden-haired girl who stood In It looked 
like a fitting occupant,. 
She took out a litt le key and opened the desk. 
How well site remembered the perfume of violets - 
the taint sweet perfume t hat she had always liked 
so much! 1 here lay the great bundle of letters 
tied with blue ribbon—letters on which a life of 
love and passion had been wasted ; there too lay 
the portrait that, Felix had given her when he 
came home from college—a portrait that had 
seemed to her one of the finest works of an. She 
would not open 1 lie letters; fi, would be roily to 
Irritateohl wounds^ Hi ■ would burn thorn; -hr 
ought to have burned them berore lnr marriage, 
but her mind had been iu such a whirl then she 
had uot thought of it. 
She went to the fireplace and stirred the fire 
Into a bright flame. She had not thought what 
she was about to do would pain her- it had seemed 
an easy thing to burn old letters; but, when she 
placed the first bundle In the midst of the names, 
it seemed to her that she was burning a living 
thing, Alas for the love wasted In them, the pas¬ 
sion, the pathos! it seemed to her that she was 
torturing Felix again; the hiss of the flames was 
like a reproachful voice, still It must be done. 
One after another she threw them all In. until the 
last was destroyed. By that time the color had 
died from her face, and her hands trembled. 
Then she came to the portrait; of course she 
must destroy It. And what was that folded so 
carefully in the tissue-paper near it? A spray of 
lilac, withered and dead.’ She remembered the 
day and the hour when it had been gathered. She 
took the portrait, in her hands; there could be no 
harm In looking at It for the last time. The noble, 
handsome, frank young face—how she had loved 
it once 1 How those eyes had watched her—how 
those lips had kissed and worshipped her! It 
must go. She looked at It intently tor a few min¬ 
utes. and then she held it over the flames; but she 
could not destroy it—she could not see the flames 
leaping round that face, it was impossible. She 
wrapped up the portrait quickly, and locked It 
out of sight. 
White ami breathless with emotion, her hands 
trembling, her heart beating, she looked up sud¬ 
denly as her husband entered the room. 
“ What are you doing, violet ?" he cried. “ Are 
you ill? \ou look as It you had seen a ghost." 
“ I have seen one," she replied slowly. 
“What have you been burning? The grate Is 
full of burnt paper.” 
She looked at him with wistful eyes. Their ex¬ 
pression did not please him. 
“ 1 been burning all the old letters I found 
In my wrlting-clesk," she replied. 
Perhaps she had an Idea that he would say some¬ 
thing kind to her; but he laughed contemptu¬ 
ously. 
What sentimental simpletons women are! Are 
you going to keep that shabby little desk here ? It 
spoils the room.” he said. 
“I thought it quite a grand piece of furniture 
once,” she. replied. 
“Did you? Your Ideas have altered on many 
subjects, no doubt. I came to ask you to ride out 
with me.” 
Her head ached with repressed emotion, but she 
dared not reluse. She had learned one lesson 
already, and that was that she must keep her hus¬ 
band In a good humor if possible. Now that the 
novelty and restraint of her presence were wearing 
off a little, he was beginning to indulge In fits ot 
temper that, startled her. She must keep him in 
good humor. She dressed and went out with him. 
“ Why do you always select the Oldstone Road ?” 
she asked him. 
“ Because I like Oldstone far better than Lilford. 
Most Of my property lies in Oldstone. I intend to 
go to Oldstone church when I go to church at all, 
and I shall patronize u ids tone generally.” 
A painful sense of disappointment stole over her, 
but she dared not express her feelings. She had 
pictured herself, in all the pride of her new state, 
rustling In her costly silk up to the old-fashioned 
aisle of t he dear old church at Lilford, to which all 
her old friends went. She would have lilted to see 
Felix again, to see how lie looked and ivhether he 
had altered She wondered what he would think 
of her la her new grandeur, a nd felt curious as to 
where and how they would meet. Then she re¬ 
membered their terrible parting, and said to her- 
sell that she must not think of him. 
She never saw him. She went several times to 
Lilford—more than once she drove past Vale House; 
but she never saw him. Then Garwood filled 
with guests, and her time was no longer her own. 
She ought, to have been perfectly happy. She was 
mistress of the most magnificent home In the 
county; she had every luxury that money could 
purchase; she was feted, admired, flattered; she 
received unwonted homage. The local papers were 
rail of descriptions of the gaieties and amusements 
going on at Garwood, and gave a list of the fashion¬ 
able visitors gathered there; and every now and 
then came some reference to the great beauty of 
Lady ibovcntx. The ladies of the neighborhood, 
reading this, looked at each other In wonder, as 
though they would have said, “ Can this be the 
girl we knew as violet Haye?” 
(7b Dp continued.) 
--— 
WHAT HAPPENED TO SEVEN GIRLS IN 
TEN YEARS. 
.MART WAGEK-FI8HBR. 
A week later, Mary Cake penned her “ ten 
years ” of doings • 
Nashton, Jan. 2 Ttli. istt. 
Walter, Raynor, Biddle, Roswell and Jaynes : 
All hall! And so it is" expected that Martha 
and I will tie on our “tale-pleees” and send 
the Idle flying up Cairns's Point way? But mind 
you nil, I shall keep strong hold r.f the string, and 
draw In all the little* bits of paper that may get 
tied on hereafter. 
My biography or the past ten years!! Indeed, 
and that Is easily given Why, any one of you 
could write the whole ot if on your smallest linger 
nail; “Got, married and have two babies.” But, 
you all look disappointed and are, may be, hungry 
for one of “Mollle’s yarns.” Will even take In a 
little exaggeration, ell? 
Being a Methodist, i suppose I ought to be able 
to extemporize a little and drum up something lo 
Outshine KOawell’s wandering, eventful career, 
Walter’s prosperous ways on this side and the 
other of the Atlantic, and the power Biddle has 
acquired during the past ten years of killing peo¬ 
ple stone dead, with a lew doses of medicine. 
I see now ; I should have kept a journal, I re¬ 
member I began one when I first came home and 
persevered with It until each day’s record was 
only a duplicate of Its predecessor; “ Have re 
malned home to-day, and nothing unusual has 
occurred,” was the sum and substance of my life 
with few variations. Walter’s visit, with Mercy 
in '68 -was one of those variations when the An¬ 
gers fly so merrily over the keys, that The music 
floats In through every crevice ot the heart and the 
all’ swells grandly up through the whole. 
In the spring of ’69 (May »b I was married to 
James K. Chapin of Nashton. Bit clown, Lee 
Jaynes, and keep quiet! You know as much 
about that variation as / do. I don’t know exactly 
how it camo about that. 1 got married, for I always 
thought I shouldn't, but If l Should, I bad pictured 
to m.vself (as you all may remember) a husband fair 
and sandy, with blue eyes and “ mutton chops.” 
But I didn't get any such kind of a feller," girls. 
Why: he is blacker than I am, if anything, and 
that you know is unnecessary. 
I again saw Walter when passing through New 
York on my wedding trip, fame home to begin a 
married life whlrh glided along rather evenly, un- 
ttl the fall ot ’Tl, when I remember a short piece of 
a visit from Mary Roswell. Thanks for that short 
favor, Molly: Oct, 27th found me In New York on 
a visit to Mercy. This visit, furnished change and 
amusement until the following June, when 1 gave 
birth t,o a boy. and we called him Johnny Cake! 
(delicious you know.) The seasons following the 
birth of Johnny were closely filled In with mater¬ 
nal cares until the spring of ’76, when I launched 
out Into housekeeping. Had barely got settled, 
when the Grand Exposition opened. I thought I 
wouldn't, do the centennial this time, but staid at 
home and celebrated by receiving auother little 
black head. GUIs! can you Imagine howl look 
dangling my own babies and singing “Hush-a- 
bye," etc. ? f do the thing up in shape (honest.) 
in summing up these events of the past ten 
years, t haven’t lost sight for an instant of our 
home In Richmond. I have looked up several 
times, to make sure that I am not, writing there 
In the old room. I can peek across the hall at 
Walter and Raynor and Invite them to go down 
with me into Roswell’s and Jaynes's room and get 
some, hot coffee with condensed milk. Kate Haw¬ 
ley Ls brushing outside the key-hole and our 
portly matron steps out of her den when she 
smells the coffee and hears us shouting. Lee, I 
thought you would marry that chap who wrote 
you such great long letters! Roswell if i were 
rich, I should be tempted to start at, once for 
California and see you in your own ' • homo. ’ I con¬ 
gratulate you most heartily on your happiness. 
Walter: how did you feel when you fell in love ? 
I’m coming to see you if fortune favors me, for I 
must confess I want to see how you act as a mar¬ 
ried woman. Mercy! hold fast to your profession 
and mind you don’t get caught In the noose be¬ 
fore you know it. By way of self description, I 
will say that I am the same old chick. I sup¬ 
pose i have grown old by ten years, since I saw 
two of our number, but I dont. feel It. 
No doubt each of you, save the two old maid 3 , 
has the best husband In the world, bo have I. 
My married life ls very peaceful, and though you 
may wonder how any man can live with me, and 
not quarrel, I can truthfully say we never have, 
and my husband ls no Idiot either. 
My boy will match yours. Roswell, i only hope 
he ulll not. prove like a false tire-cracker, that 
flashes up when first lighted as though a tre¬ 
mendous snap was In It, and then fizzles all out. 
The little girlie ls as sweet and winning as the 
angels In heaven. 
Martha Ls able to vindicate her own course ; but 
shake hands with me girls across the sheet, that 
she still remains single, and things look now, as 
though, if occasion required, she might take the 
enoiaMe position of “Aunt" in my growing family. 
Receive In conclusion my choicest benediction and 
remember I am always ready to receive, and em¬ 
brace you. Mary C'ake Chapin. 
Nasuton, Feb. 7. 1ST7. 
Dear Spirits ok '67:—Very gludly I fall Into line 
of battle in ilfis grand army or facts atid figures, 
while endeavoring to lap my life onto ten years ago 
and see what comes out between, summer of 1S67 
—we parted then, and into what different paths: 
These lew letters shall reveal ma life ; t: accentful. 
Autumn oi ’67, went to Alexandria. Va., as work 
still remained to bo done among the Freedmen end 
the opportunity still remained to me to bear s r me 
part in it. At home fall and winter of '09, doing 
little. From spring of *69 until '70, teaching in 
Nashton. Fall of ’70 went to Illinois to Join an old 
friend; our object, to see what, the Vest might 
offer as a business opening. Unsuccessful and re¬ 
turned to Nashton, determined to see what kind of 
a business woman I could make In my own town, 
and accordingly Joined myself ton Mrs. White, of 
like mind ns myself, and we started In and still con¬ 
tinue together. Our sign swings •* White & Cake,” 
and we are often addressed “ Dear Sirs." The suc¬ 
cess we hoped for in the beginning has been sadly 
Interfered with by the hard times, hut thoso wise 
In the tricks of t he t rade say we should he satisfied 
In that we have been able to meetonr bills, and 
have, I hope, Steadily gained In name and fame. I 
An vc a pretty store, centrally located, with well 
appointed millinery, ranOy dry goods-and in the 
rear a department, tor giving women “fits;” so 
that If you walk in some pleasant afternoon, you 
may find me measuring tape over the counter, or 
striking my most persuasive al titude before some 
semi-beguiled mortal, with a “ love of a bonnet” 
on her head. lean hardly say with Biddle that I 
am satisfied to five and die In my vocation, for an 
aged milliner might,got a feather askew, while the 
old family doctor Is a treasure of wisdom and skill. 
However, for the presem I am content. This is 
home, and the family number remains unbroken. 
Personally, the ten years have left their marks, I 
suppose. The gray hairs grow plentiful and the 
crows’ feet creep Into the corners of Die eyes, but 
the heart is amazed at the passage of time. 
And now, girls, my story ls ended. My heart 
and home are open to you all, to you and yours. 
As ever, Martha Cakjj. 
(To be continued.) 
