He thought Lady Maude singularly reticent on 
the subject, the fact being that she never liked to 
hear Lady Chevenlx mentioned. She could not 
forgive her for all she had made Felix suffer ; she 
could not bear to think ol so worthy a young fellow 
having been made wretched through the caprice of 
a woman, she never liked to remember the day 
and the hour In which she had found Win stricken 
like one dead by the treachery of it false woman. 
She said as little as possible about Lady Cheve¬ 
nlx at all times. She was half vexed that Major 
Rawson should admire her, for. If Lady Maude had 
In her heart, any weakness, It was a great admira¬ 
tion for the hero of the Victoria Cross, she would 
have liked to think that he was above the weak¬ 
ness of admiring a face merely because It was beau¬ 
tiful ; she would have felt better pleased If he had 
praised it for being noble. Lady Maude admired 
nobility more than beauty, and could not under¬ 
stand any man being a slave to beauty. 
She liked Major Rawson, and she said to herself 
now, labor exalted fashion, that ho was the kind 
of hero she approved of. i Ter noble face brightened 
with happiness when he was by her side; she lilted 
to heai’ him speak; his presence was a source ol 
unwonted pleasure to her. She was too proud and 
stately to say to he reelf that she cared for him in 
any way, though she had a great admiration for 
him. Rut theday of the garden-party at Garswood 
was to be one to be remembered with pleasure by 
both of them, for It was the day on which they 
first began to understand that each had conceived 
a friendship tor the other. 
The brave and simple-hearted soldier could not 
comprehend why Lady Chevenlx had given up Fe¬ 
lix Lonsdale for sir Given, some one gave him an 
explanation of It, and lie came back to ask Lady 
Maude if It were correct. 
“ I wish you would not aslc me,” she said, “ for it 
Is a story l do not like to hear or to speak or." 
“ Tour wishes are ray law on every subject,” re¬ 
plied the Major. “If you tell me that l must not 
ask you, 1 will not; but 1 am deeply interested— 
and J do not often interest myself in other persons’ 
affairs,” 
“I can only tell you what happened,” she re¬ 
plied—for to no creature living had Lady .Maude 
ever betrayed one word of the commence Felix had 
reposed in her. “ The occurrence,” she continued, 
“ Is unfortunately very common. Lady chevenlx, 
then Miss violet Haye—‘beautiful Violet llaye,’ 
she was called—was engaged to marry Felix Lons¬ 
dale. 1 believe that ir Sir Owen had delayed his 
coming for three months longer they would have 
been married lie came, and with his vast wealth 
and title soon became the Lkra of this county. How 
she broke her troth-plight, and why she broke It, 
what excuses she made to heme If or others made 
for her, I cannot tell you; but it is quite certain 
that she went to London, and that Six’ Owen lol- 
lowed and married her there.” 
“ There can be but one explanation—she must 
have given up her lover for the Baronet,” said the 
Major; “ but l cannot imagine any woman prefer¬ 
ring sir Owen chevenlx to Felix Lonsdale.” 
“ You.forget that Sir Owen had, as the old soug 
says, houses and lands, while Mr. Felix Lonsdale 
has nothing but his brains.” 
The Major was silent for some minutes, and then 
he asked— 
“Is the world very hard on these sins, Lady 
Maude?” 
“ 1 do not know, l know that society receives 
Lady Chevenlx with open arms.” 
“Aral what do women call such sins?” he asked 
again. " What Is the name they go by In this curi¬ 
ous world called society ?” 
“ People, give them different, names -some call 
them prudence, some faithlessness.” 
“ What do you call such behaviorr* lie asked. 
“ Mine is a plain unfashionable term,” said Lady 
Maude. “ I call the woman who breaks her word 
to her lover a jilt, and I call the wrong she does by 
Its right name perfidy." 
Major Rawson admired the speaker all the more 
for frankness. 
And so Sir Owen’s garden-party passed off well, 
every one praising the graceful beautirul hostess— 
but no one saw lifer siuucllug later on In the eve¬ 
ning with tears In her eyes watching the sunset. 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
Sir Owen had a novel Idea—If was, when the 
June quarter day came round, to Invite the princi¬ 
pal tenants to dine at camwood. Such things 
were done by the great landed proprietom of the 
county, and he was desirous of Initiating them. 
This reminded him that there were several other 
matters that, required attention—some of the ten¬ 
ants’ leases had fallen in. and to renew them would 
require a long and patient search in the iron room, 
where all deeds and documents of value were pre¬ 
served. There was another Important piece of 
business on hand. One of the farmers In the neigh¬ 
borhood had sold some land to sir owenChevenlx; 
but soon after the sale he died, and his successors 
disputed his right to sell. Most or the old title- 
deeds of the Garswood estate required careful pe¬ 
rusing ; so Sir Owen Invited Darcy Lonsdale to stay 
for a few days at Garswood. it would bo much 
easier, he thought, for hint to read the various pa¬ 
pers there than to have them taken to Jits office. 
Mr. Lonsdale thought so too, and promised to 
ride over to the llall; but shortly before the ap¬ 
pointed time some Important law-business called 
for his presence in London. 
“1 must go,” he said to Felix; “and you will 
have to take my place at, Garswood— no one else 
can do It. What do you Say, Felix? II you dislike 
U, I will give up my London engagement; but I 
do not think li can make any difference to yon. 
\\ hat do you say ?” And the elder man' looked 
anxiously Into the face of his sou. 
Felix was silent ror a low minutes, and then Im 
said, with a frank smile - 
“ it can’t matter, father; I go as a man of busi¬ 
ness, not asa friend. I will do it with pleasure. It 
would be as well for you just to write and hint to 
Sir Owen that he might prefer you.” 
“l do not think he would,” returned Darcy 
Lonsdale; “ you are decidedly his favorite, Felix.” 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
Mr. Lonsdale was light. Sir Owen was much 
pleased at the change. He passed the lawyer’s 
letter over to his wife, and she read It. 
“Iam very pleased,” he said. “ Felix Is cleverer 
than his father—and I like him. See that he has a 
nice room, and that Ills comforts arc well attended 
to.” 
She made some vague reply—it seemed toiler 
that heaven and earth were about to meet. Thai 
Felix should ever be under her roof as her guest 
seemed to her a, most wonderful thing. IIow 
should she receive him? Would he soften a little 
In ills manner to her ? How fervently she hoped 
that Sir Owen would treat her, if not. kindly, at 
least with some outward semblance of respect l ie- 
fore her old lover! she was glad that Marian 
Ilellicote was still with her—It would have been 
awkward to have met him alone. 
When Sir Owen laid quitted the room, Marian 
placed her ha mis upon Lady OhevenLx’s shoulders 
and looked Into her face. 
“ Tell me,” she said—“ do you like this arrange¬ 
ment v Does It please or vex you t" 
Lady Chevenlx met her gaze with a calm smile. 
“It does neither," she replied; and then Miss 
Hethcote understood that the subject of FelLx 
Lonsdale was not to be reopened between them. 
Lady Chevenlx never forgot the evening when 
Felix came, it seemed to her that everything 
looked the brighter and the better for his coming. 
Mi' owen had given orders that the dinner should 
be delayed until he arrived. 
FelLx Lonsdale and Lady Chevenlx met with 
seeming Indifference. She looked very beautiful. 
She wore a dinner-dress of white lace, with lilies 
of the valley In her hair. She held out her hand 
In greeting to him. 
“ I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Lonsdale,” she 
salcL “ I hope you will have a few pleasant days 
with us.” 
Miss Hethcote next had something to say to him, 
and then sir Owen entered the room. He was 
most effusive in his greeting. He was delighted to 
see his guest; he hoped he would make himself 
quite at home, and enjoy himself as much as possi¬ 
ble. 
violet could not help contrasting the two men as 
they stood side by side—Sir Owen’s awkward tigure 
and coarse face with the grand beauty of Felix 
Lonsdale, the nobility of the untitled man with 
the commonplaeedness of the titled one. The con¬ 
trast was both sharp and strong; she felt, it keenly. 
Then they went In to dinner, sir owen was in 
one of his best humoi’s, and everything went off 
well. For so much Lady Chevenlx was t hankful; 
every hour spent without au outbreak was a gain 
to her. 
“You will give us this one evening, Mr. Lons¬ 
dale,” said sir oweti. “ Knjoy yourself a little be¬ 
fore you begin to work.” 
It was a mutter of perfect indifference to him. If 
lie had consulted his own Inclination, he would 
have preferred to begin work at once; but he could 
hardly be Impolite etiough to say so. 
Sir Owen liked to sleep after he had dined. Felix 
declined to take more wine; and the Baronet, 
thinking m his heart that the young lawyer was a 
simpleton for It, went Into the drawing-room with 
him, and then fell asleep. Before he closed his 
eyes he said— 
“ Lady Chevenlx, Mr. Lonsdale, will like to see 
the grounds, I am sure. You and Miss Hethcote 
will both enjoy a stroll.” 
He never once thought that he was submitting 
Ids young wife to a most deadly peril—the peril or 
a great temptation. He never thought of Felix 
l.onsdalo as of one who had been his wife’s lover. 
He- had been engaged to her—that was a well- 
known tact; lull.,, so soon as he, the victorious 
knight, had appeared, he had retired from the 
contest defeated, and there was an end of it all, 
lie considered that he had raised his wife so com¬ 
pletely above all her past life, that he had taken 
her so completely out of her old sphere, that noth¬ 
ing which had Interested her then could Interest 
her now—lie never pondered the fact that, Felix 
Lonsdale, the rising lawyer, the man of promise, 
the most clever and skillful practitioner In the 
county, was his wife's old lover. So he lay down 
hi perfect content while he sent ills young wife 
out Into the lovely summer gloaming with her old 
lover. 
They walked on all three together, saying little, 
hut thinking perhaps all the more. They passed 
through the pleasure-grounds; they lingered 
amongst the iobcs and the lily-blooms; they 
watched the gold-fish In the fountain. The air 
was balmy, sweet, and fragrant with the odor of 
flowers. 
"Let us goon to the park.” said Marian Heth- 
eote; *• it will be very pleasant there.” 
They passed through the shrubbery and entered 
the park. The beautiful fragrant gloaming had 
set, in; the water ot the lake was tinged with crim¬ 
son and gold; a lovely light lay over the trees; 
there was a faint murmur as the wind swayed the 
branches of the trees and stirred the leaves. The 
peace and beauty, the loveliness and repose touched 
them. 
“Shall we sit down here,” said Lady Chevenlx, 
“ by the lake side, and watch the light die out over 
the water?” 
They sat down, the two ladles side by side, Fe¬ 
lix, nearest to Miss Hethcote, at their feet. Marian 
was talking ga.vly to him; Lady Chevenlx said but 
lit tie. lie who once loved her with such a passion¬ 
ate love looked at her. No dream ot poetor painter 
could ever have been more fair. The evenlug light 
fell full upon her face, which was raised to the sky 
as she watched the crimson clouds; it touched her 
golden hair and was reflected by the rich Jewels 
that she wore, she had thrown a white lace shawl 
over her white neck and bare arms; a corner of it, 
was over her head, and the shadow ot it softened 
her features, she listened to the lively sallies of 
her girl-friend, wondering If she should ever again 
he so happy, so light ot heart. 
Then Malian sang a quaint little song—u ballad 
telling the story of a knight who had ridden away 
to the Holy Land, leaving a girl-bride who died 
while he was away—a sweet sad song, just suited 
the hour and the gloaming. 
“ Now, Lady Chevenlx,” she said, “ you must 
sing ror us too ; sing that beautiful song you were 
practising this morning.” 
“ I was not practising,” returned Lady Chevenlx. 
“ I was trying to put some words to an air I think 
very sad and sweet. If you would like to hear it, 
I will sing tt. Would you care to hear it, Mr. 
Lonsdale ?” 
He murmured some commonplace words about 
his having always liked good music. She smiled 
bitterly to herself ; and l hen, in a low, sad, sweet 
voice, she sang these words— 
Yes. dear, our love is slain— 
In the cold grave for e\ errnore it lies. 
Never to wake again 
Or light dot sorrows with its starry eyes; 
And so regret is vain. 
“ ‘ Wo should have seen it sliitie 
Long years beside us. Time and Death might try 
To touch that love divine, 
Whose strength could ev’ry stroke defy 
Save—only mine! 
. “ ‘ No longing can restore 
Our dead again. Vain are the tears we weep; 
And vainly we deplore 
Our buried love. Its grave lies dark and deep 
Between us evermore.’ ” 
Her voice died away In a low sweet murmur that 
was like the love-plnint of a bird, and they were 
silent for some minutes, none caring to break the 
spelt. Then Felix looked at her. 
“ I remember those words,” he said ; “ they are 
taken from a poem called ‘ Lost Alice,' by Adelaide 
Ann Proctor. I gave you the book, 1 think, Lady 
Chevenlx ?” 
That was the first time he had ever alluded to 
the past; he had until now always treated her as a 
Stranger—as a Lady to whom he had been Intro¬ 
duced tor the first time by Sir Owen chevenlx. 
ller face brightened, when she heard it; It 
seemed to her that the broken chain had been 
taken up In those simple words. 
“ Yes, you gave It to me,” she acknowledged; 
"and 1 know every word of the poem by heart—I 
have read it so often.” 
He looked up In surprise. 
“ Indeed!” lie said. •• l thought that you did not 
eare for poetry at all. Lady chevenlx ?” 
“ 1 fancied I did not, but I was mistaken. Dur¬ 
ing these later years L have learned to value and 
understand many things that were once like so 
many dead letters lo me.” 
“ 1 'wish,” said Marian Itetluiote, “ that we could 
understand everything at once. As it Is, we learn 
little quickly; It takes long years to teach us the 
simplest lessons, and by the l ime they are learned 
we must die. As my favorite poet says— 
“ * We live—wo love ; and then 
Stone dead we lie. 
0 Life, is ail thy soug 
Endure and die?’ 
How much more pleasant it would be If we could 
master everything at once! What mistakes and 
blunders we make! f read the other day ot a great 
and wise man who, when he came to die, said, 4 My 
life has been all a mistake.’ m r. Lonsdale, l am 
growing unite sad; It Ls your turn t.o sing for us.” 
“I cannot sing; bur i will repeat some verses 
that I think very beautiful. It you would like to 
hear them.” 
“ Whose are they?” asked Lady Chevenlx. 
“They arc Miss Proctor’s,” he replied; and he 
turned his face away from her while he recited 
them. 
It seemed to Lady Chevenlx as though the wind 
fell and all nature were hushed to listen. There 
was no passion, no regret, In the low, rich tones— 
the were clear and sweet and eloquent—but each 
word as it. tell In the fragrant gloaming seemed to 
burn itself on her heart and lira In. 
** The poem ls called * Part ing,’ ” said Felix, “ and 
is so beautiful In Itself that it cannot fall to please; 
' ‘ Without one bitter fueling 1st lib part ; 
And for the years in which your love has shed 
A radiancu like a glory round my head 
I thank you—yen, I thank you from luy heart. 
* * I thank you -and no grief u in those fears ; 
I thank you, not in bitterness, but truth. 
For the fair vision that adorned my youth 
And glorified so many happy years. 
"' Yet how much more t thank you that you tore, 
At length, the veil, yonr hand had woven, away, 
\V liich hid my idol—a thing of day. 
And false the altar I bad knelt before ! 
“•I thank you that yon taught me the stem truth 
None other eoukl have told and l believed— 
That vain had been toy love and 1 deceived, 
Aud wasted all the purpose of my youth. 
‘“I thank you that your hand dualled down the shrine 
Wherein my idol worship I hud paid ; 
Else had 1 never known a soul was made 
To serve and worship only the Divine. 
“ * 1 thank you for a terrible awakening 
And, if reproach seamed hidden in my pain, 
And sorrow seemed to cry on your disdain, 
Know that my blessing lay in your forsaking. 
•'' Farewell for over now—iu pence we part , 
Aud should an idle vision of mj tears 
Arise before your soul in after-years, 
Remember that I thank you from my heart.’ ” 
so clearly, one by one, with cruel distinctness, 
the words sounded In Violet’s ears. She knew, she 
understood that that was what he would say to 
her; In his mind there could never be even the 
faintest renewal ot their past friendship, and In his 
heart ho thanked her that ids unhappy love, his 
great abiding sorrow, had taught him many noble 
lessons. She understood—he had said It delicately 
and kindly, but he laid meant It—that the whole 
past was burled for him; he thanked her that she 
had taught him to suffer, and suffer In silent 
strength 
She was quite silent for many minutes after ho 
had finished; It was Marian who talked lo him and 
made hlrn recite for them again and again. 
The sun had ser, the crimson and gold had faded 
from the water, a gray shade had fallen over it— 
all was quiet, calm, peaceful. Lady Chevenlx 
rested her head against the gnarled trunk of an old 
tree; the pea.ee and repose were novel to her. 
Presently a slight sound In the distance startled 
her. 
“ What Is that?” she said. 
“ 1 Tt was only the deer that were feeding 
In a herd on the clover grass,’ ” 
sang Marian; and Felix looked up with a smile. 
“ I know that,” lie said. “ You are quoting from 
a ballad called “ Hash.” Strange Jo say, I was 
thinking of It a short time since. The words were 
running through my bruin,” 
“They have run through my heart,” remarked 
Marian, “otten and often. I am matter-of-fact 
myself, but that song always brings tears to my 
eyes. Repeat it for us, Mr. Lonsdale." 
“ I will. Tbero ls something In tbe time that 
suits the words. The light Is dying in the sky, the 
sun has set, the flowers ale sleeping, the wood- 
pigeons are silent, the air ls full ot dreams. 
* I can Scarcely hear,' ” she murmured, 
” * For my heart beats loud and fast ; 
But surely in the far, far distance, 
I can hear a sound at last?’ ” 
“ It is only the reapers singing 
As they carry home their sheaves. 
And the evening breeze has riseu, 
And rustles Uiodying leaves." 
“ ‘ .Listen there are voices talking ! ’ ’’ 
Calmly still she strove to speak. 
Yet her voice grew faint, and trembling, 
And the red flushed in her checck 
“* It is only the children playing, 
Below, now their work is done. 
And they laugh that their eyes are dazzled 
By the rays of the sotting sun.' " 
" ‘ Fainter grew her voice, aud weaker. 
As with anxious eyes she cried— 
‘ * Down the avenue of chestnuts 
I can hear a horseman ride ’" 
“*It was only the deer that were feeding 
In a herd on the clover grass ; 
They wore startled and fled to the thicket 
As they saw the reapers pass.’ ’’ 
“ ‘ Now the night arose in silence. 
Birds lay iu their leafy nest, 
And the deer couched in the forest. 
And the children were at rest. 
There was only a sound of weeping 
From watchers around a bed— 
But rest to the weary spirit. 
Peace to the quiet dead.'" 
There was silence as the last words fell, and 
Lady Chevenlx bowed Uer head, so as to hide her 
tears. The gray shadows fell darker. 
A loud voice roused them. 
“ Where are you ? Where have you hidden 
yourselves'.’ Surely a ramble amongst the flowers 
does not mean an encampment, by the lake.” 
Through the elear fragrant air came the odor of 
a cigar, and sir < iwen, looking very cross, suddenly 
appeared before them. 
“ I could not find you anywhere,” he said In a 
sullen tone “You must have hidden yourselves on 
purpose.” 
Lady Chevenlx did not answer him. because she 
knew that It was needless to do so. Miss Heth¬ 
cote was equal to the occasion. 
“If we had wanted to hide,” she said, “we 
would have bidden. As we did not, we remained 
hi re. II you are going to be cross, sir Owen, do 
notjspoil an agreeable party by joining it.” 
Be laughed then, and sat down with them; but 
the beauty, the poetry and peace were all gone, 
lie began to tell of a fight he had seen between a 
King Charles’s spaniel and a toy terrier, laughing 
heartily at It, and wondering they did not laugh 
also. It was an exquisite Joke to him to tell how 
the little King Charles lay dying—and even in dy¬ 
ing tried to lick his hand. 
“ Do you enjoy seeing anything suffer, Sir Owen, ’ ’ 
said Miss Hethcote. 
“ I think a dog-flght, or anything of that kind, 
capital sport,” he answered. 
44 But the unfortunate creatures must feel i” 
“ Feel 1” sneered Sir Owen. “ What nonsense! 
Foxes were made to be hunted, rats to be worried, 
dogs to fight. Why should they feel ?" 
With a shrug of her shoulders she turned away 
from him. .sir Owen laughed again; he rather en¬ 
joyed a dispute with a pretty girl. 
•• I am not one ot your sentimentalists,” he said. 
“Now Mr, Lonsdale could give you poems by the 
yard, 1 am sure.” 
41 1 should be- very sorry to do so,” remarked Fe¬ 
lix; “at the same time I give the preference to 
poetry rather than to dog-ilghts.” 
sir owen laughed again; In his own opinion he 
was a most manly man, and FelLx most In 3 ignlil- 
cant. Felix rose from his sea t and strolled away; 
he toll disgust almost amounting to hatred for 
this coaise, vulgar, repulsive man. 
44 Do not leave us, Mr. Lonsdale,” said sir Owen. 
“ I will take Miss Hethcote Indoors, and you can 
eseort her ladyship—though she looks decidedly 
sullen.” 
It was useless for Lady Chevenlx to say that she 
had no thought of being sullen; when Sir Owen 
had once asserted a thing, he maintained It. She 
looked up Into the fa>ce of FolLx Lonsdale, with a 
smile that made his heart boat faster than usual. 
“ That Js not one ot my faults,” she said. “ I do 
not remember ever having been sullen in my life; 
I have seldom been out of temper.” 
l le remembered the sweet sunny temper that had 
never known cloud or variableness, but offered no 
remark—ho had resolved to himself so often that 
nothing should Induce him to talk to her about the 
past. They walked towards tbe house through the 
deepening shadows, and said but little to each 
other. 
When they reached the Hall, Lady Chevenlx was 
grtoved to And a telegram train Mrs, Hethcote. 
Some friends had arrived quite unexpectedly, and 
she wished .Marianto return at once. Felix won¬ 
dered why the mistress of Garswood should turn 
so white when she had read the telegram—why 
sho should place her hands upon the girl’s shoul¬ 
ders and say to her so sadly— 
• 4 What shall I do without you, Marian ? 
44 1 will come back to you as soon 1 can, dear 
Lady chevenlx,” replied the girl, “and lu the 
meantime Mr. Lonsdale will be here.” 
( 2 b be commued.) 
