THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
abrupt gesture of pain, while Jean, her lips 
pale with emotion, bent down to answer some 
trivial remark from a lady seated at the table. 
•* Wlmt madness it was to come,” said Lord Ivor 
to himself, as he went to his room to dress for 
dinner. •* 1 only increase her wroteheduess and 
rend my own heart without doing any good. That 
message she sent me that she was happy was not 
true one. Happy! my poor Jeanlo. ilow could . 
she be happy—here!” 
CIIAFTERjJXX. 
OCRING THE BALL. 
The ball was at Its hlght; strains of the softest, 
dreamiest dance mu do issued from the ball-rooms, 
light forms flouted li.v In the at rest and gayest of 
ball costumes, ices were being discussed, and 
champagne and par/aH amour. Flirtatious reigned 
supreme, vows were exchanged, vows professing 
to be eternal and lasting until “ next time ” only, 
(lowers drooped their graceful heads in the heated 
air, soit voices rose and fell, deeper tones softener 
and grew tender under the magic Influences of the 
hour, silver laughter rippled from coral Ups, 
flowers were exchanged, little gloves given, tiny 
hands pressed, In this hour sacred to youth and 
happiness, where all was bright, and gay, and 
glad. 
The ball was a success; no one could dispute 
That fact for a moment looking round at the 
flushed, happy faces and bright smUes. Her 
grace the Duchess of (Hossin, moving through 
the room In her purple velvet, dress, and diamonds 
on her bare, white shoulders, devoutly hoped 
that the entertainment at Glossin Castle would 
provfe as successful. There were eligible men 
and pretty girls in plenty; the latter are seldom 
rare in an English ball-room, It Is the former 
who are generally conspicuous by their absence; 
the dresses were all fresh and charming, the re¬ 
freshments of a description which was lull uf 
promise for the supper by-and-tiy, the wine, per- 
fe-tlon, the lues, (.miter'a. What more could you 
have? Nothing; for the music was just what 
dance music Should be, gay. bright, sort, inspirit¬ 
ing, and the floor had a delightful, elastic spring. 
“A most delightful ball,” said the Marchioness 
of llelwether, as she saw how much her daughters, 
Ladles Fannie and Margaret la, Were enjoying 
themselves. "A most delightful ball, my dear 
Lady Melvll.” 
“ Delightful indeed, dear Lady Belweltber. No 
expense spared, nor trouble. I am sure we owe 
Mr. Blair many thanks ror such a charming en¬ 
tertainment!” simpered Lady Melvll. 
“ It is a very good rtcOwf," said the Marchioness, 
coolly, farming herself languidly. “1 daresay, 
Mrs. Blair originated It, she was always fond of 
balls before her marriage. Where is she, by the 
way?” 
“ she was here a minute ago. Ah I there she 
is, labUng to his Grace.” 
And Lady Melvll made a slight movement of her 
fan to the place where Jean was standing, talking 
to the Duke uf Utosslh, and looking as if her pow¬ 
ers ot endurance wore near their end. sin 1 was 
dressed in sapphire blue velvet, high to the throat, 
where It was finished oil by soft, filmy lace and a 
collar of diamond sure; on her arms, bare to the 
elbow, guttered the same precious stones, and In 
her hair was one creamy tea-rose. 
‘•She looks well! What diamonds!” said the 
Marchioness, critically, and wished In her heart 
that Jean McLeod had left Mr. Blair free for one 
of her own daughters, for though by marrying 
him she had left one prize in the matrimonial mar¬ 
ket unclaimed, Lord Ivor did not seem Inclined to 
profit by Ills liberty, not though Lathes Fannie 
and Murgaroita, with their aristocratic outlines 
and cold blue eyes, would, either of them, have 
been charmed to surrender at discretion. 
“Yes, she Is a most fortunate woman,” said 
Lady Melvll. 
A fortunate woman! 
Lady Melvll could not follow her as, a few min¬ 
utes after, she left the ball-room, and went away 
swiftly and silently to her own boudoir, to drop 
lor a few moments the mask she was loreed to 
wear. Lady Melvll could not see her. us bowed 
upon the soft cushions, she covered her face with 
her frail, little lingers, to hide the tears which fell 
slowly but heavily on to the blue velvet of her 
dress. If she could she might have changed her 
opinion. 
But If Lady Melvll did not follow her another 
did, and it was thus he found her. 
Lord Ivor had watched her, unnoticed himself, 
closely; ho had seen through the artlticlal smiles, 
and sounded the hollowness of her gaiety. He 
had seen how. at length, the forced smile faded, 
the graceful head drooped, aud the little hands 
clasped themselves together in pain; then he saw 
her leave the ball- room, and, with an irresistible 
Impulse, he had followed her, and, entering the 
boudoir after her, softly closed the door before she 
was aware of his presence. Standing there, pale 
and sllenl in the shadow of the dlmly-llghted 
room, he watched her with an aching heart; he 
watched her as she folk with an atr of lassitude 
and exhaustion, on the cushions of her sofa; he 
saw how her hands went to her face, and how the 
tears fell through the frail, slender fingers, and he 
thought, with an aching heart, that, he had no 
light to comfort her, no right to show her any 
sympathy, or offer any help. 
No right, although ho loved her with a love 
which would have held It a light sacrlflee to lay 
down his lift* for her sake. 
It, was hard—It was bitterly hard. 
Faintly the distant music came to his ears; 
there was a iragrancu of roses ou t he air—roses In 
In the blue Sevres vases in the boudoir. 
At length she rose, staggering a little, as If faint 
and dizzy; Lhen, crossing the room, she threw 
open a window, aud as the cold wind blew Into the 
room, brliiglng with it a thick, rush uf snow, she 
leant out into the dark night. 
But she was sorily drawn back, the window was 
closed by a linn, gentle hand, and, white, giddy, 
half-stupefied as she was, she felt two lender arms 
enfold her. and a tender voice chided her softly 
for her Imprudence. 
“ Archie!” she said, faintly, pushing her hair 
from her brow dizzily—" Archie, Is It you ?” 
“ yes," he said, softly. “ Yes, my darling!” 
She lilted her eyes to his, and saw him through 
the mist which obscured her sight—saw that he 
was pallid as death, worn and sad: and she lorgot 
everything save That, he was with her again, and 
that she loved him. 
“ oh! my love—my love!” she said, and fell on 
his neck, and clung to him like a tired child, with 
her head upon his breast. 
There was a Long silence then, broken only by 
the moaning ot the wind without and the sound 
of tho distant music. Ills arms were still around 
tier as they stood, her face still buried on his 
breast. 
Then suddenly she remembered ; a burning flush 
colored her white face, then fading, left her whiter 
than before, she strove with her little feeble hands 
to unloose Ills clasp, and put his arms from around 
her: there was a dull, contused singing In her 
ears, something which seemed to toll her that he 
ought nor. to be near her, to hold her thus—to hold 
her. another—another man's wife; and at the 
thought she shrank away from him with a little 
cry of shame. 
Lord Ivor guessed her thoughts ; he loosened his 
arms from around her, suddenly and completely, 
and moved away from her a few paces. 
“ Forgive me,” he said, In a low tone of pain— 
“ forgive me 2” 
The tone of sincere contrition and humility 
si ruck home to the aching, suffering heart. Ills 
sin had been but slight after nil, the forgetfulness 
had been momentary. 
“ t saw you leave the ball-room,” he said, in a 
moment, speaking more calmly, but In a tone stilt 
low; “ l ventured to follow you. 1 was wrong, per¬ 
haps ; hut I feared you were Ul. Do you forgive 
me 7” 
“Oh! yes," she said, faintly, and facing him, 
with one hand raised to her throat as it the dia¬ 
mond collar choked her. 
“ l could not resist the temptation." he said, 
hurriedly. “ I wanted to see you one moment, 
alone, and there are so many calls upon your at¬ 
tention.” 
'l’he tone of ceremony, of distant politeness was 
hard to maintain; he paused abruptly. Jean, 
looking up, met hts 
" Eyes of dangerous gray." 
and her own dropped. 
“ You sent me a message by Florence," he went 
on, less calmly. •• You said you were well and 
happy. 1 came here. Jean, to see with my own 
eyes the truth ot your assertion. Your falsehood 
was kindly meant,” he added, with a weary sigh ; 
“ but it was a foslehood, Jeante. One glance 
at you undeceived me. You are neither well nor 
happy!” 
*• You look Ul,” she said, lnurledly. “ Do not 
Uilk ot me. TeU me of yourself. Are you keep¬ 
ing your promise to me 7 it was not wise—It was 
hardly kind — to come, Archie; aud yet 1 so 
longed to see you.” 
*• ilush! dear,” he said, softly. “ Do not drive 
me from you at once—do not make it harder for 
me! My poor .lean, do you know what It has cost 
me to see yon suffer thus and to know that. 1 am 
powerless? It Is hard,” he went on, brokenly— 
•• It, Is bitterly hard!" 
He turned from her and walked the length of 
the room in silence; then coming hack to her side, 
“ nils man, your husband, he Is kind to you ?” 
he asked. 
She bowed her head In silence. 
•* Yes, he Is kind to me,” she repeated, slowly, 
u jean,” he exclaimed, with quick pain—“ Jean, 
are you learning to love lilm ?’’ 
“ I must nrst learn not to hate,” she said, bit¬ 
terly. “ uli! Archie.” 
•• My child, I did not meau to hurt you.” he said, 
softly. " sometimes I wish you could love him.” 
■* Love him!” she cried, bitterly. •* Love him! 1 
hate him with the bitterest hatred.” 
She drew herself up, clenching her slender 
hands in her earnestness. 
••oh! my child, hush; you have your life to 
pass with him.' - he forced himself to say, although 
the words were halt suffocating him. 
“ Do you think I can forget that ?” she said, pas¬ 
sionately. " 1 do not ueed reminding." 
*• Would to Heaven l could help you,” he said, 
pacing up and down. " It is maddening to see 
you to see your face with Its terrible sorrow, 
which you try to hide by smiles more terrible still; 
to see your strength fading; to know how you are 
suffering and not to be able to help you-not to be 
able to win back your peace.” 
•• You think I tun looking Ul, then ?” she said 
eagerly. “ oh! thank 1U aven, ltte used to look so 
short wUen 1 was going io spend It. with you; but 
now, however short. It will be too long. Look at 
toy hand, It is almost, transparent oh! Archie, 
don’t, dear, it makes mo so happy to think that 
perhaps it may soon be all over, and that I shall 
be at rest.” 
•• Dear, you are breaking my heart," he said, 
sadly and brokenly. 
m An a yet it you love me you should be glad,” she 
answered, sorrowfully. " To think that, from this 
life, trom which you cannot save me. death, more 
powerful than you. Archie, will release me.” 
“ Joan, hush, you are tempting me horribly!” he 
exclaimed, hiding Ids face In hts Kinds. 
“Tempting you!'' she repeated, ralntly. “Tempt¬ 
ing you! How?’* 
“ Do you not understand V” he said, passionately, 
taking her hands in his, and almost bruising them 
hi the closeness of his grasp. “ You are tempting 
nie to forget manhood and honor ; you are tempt¬ 
ing me to soil your purity by a thought unworthy 
of you and ot myself. Jean, In pity, let me tulnk 
you happy—let me think you happy, or the temp¬ 
tation will be beyond my strength.” 
“ What temptation?” she said, faintly, hardly 
able to bear the passion ot feeling at her heart, 
while the room went round aud rouhd her, aud a 
mist came between her eyes and his beloved face, 
blotting It, out from her gaze. 
“ The temptation to steal you from him, as he 
stole you from me," he said, with fierce sorrow. 
“ To bring you, Heaven forgive me, to yet greater 
unhappiness.” 
she smiled at him as she scanned her face, 
smiled sweetly and sadly Into his passionate eyes. 
“You love too weU,” she said, brokenly; “ and 
Hove you too well to go with you, Archie,” 
lie dropped her hands with a murmured “ Par¬ 
don;” and Jean sank on the couch, white and 
strengthless, now that, her passion had died away. 
“ You must leave me now,” she said, reebly. 
“ You will be missed. Do not look bo anxious,” 
she added, forcing a smile. “ Dear, it Is only what 
I deserve. Do you remember how I used to tease 
you by my flirtations In those old happy days, 
which seem so long ago -oh! so long ago ? Do you 
remember how I vexed you by that drive with him. 
and how I threatened to marry him If I liked ? 
How naughty l was, and how good you were I" 
•• Jean, you are torturing me!” he sahl. hoarsely. 
“ Am I ?” she said, dreamily. “ Forgive me, 
dear—forgive me, and leave me now. - ’ 
ne hesitated a moment. Her voice had been 
growing fainter, and her breath was coming in 
quick gasps, lie was afraid to leave her thus; but 
there was no resisting the soft, mute prayer In the 
eyes lifted to his- lie lifted her hand -the little, 
death-cold hand — which hung helplessly by her 
side, as she drooped upon the sofa, and touched It 
to hts Ups, turning from her with a face as white 
as her own. and, leaving the room with an un¬ 
even step; and as the door closed after him a 
charita ble oblivion blotted out all Jean’s sorrow for 
a tew moments, as she fell back, fainting on the 
cushions. 
The chill, reviving air from an open window 
brought back her consciousness a few minutes 
after, 'there was a cool sprinkle of some strong 
scent on her brow ; and as she raised herself from 
her cushions, she saw that Emily Brett was stand¬ 
ing beside her. 
“ You are better, ma’am,” she said, quietly. 
"Yes, 1 am better. I don’t know what made 
me faint. I am tired, I suppose.” 
“ The scent of the flowers was too much, per¬ 
haps. ma’am,” suggested Emily, offering the 
vlnaigrt-tto she held; but her mistress pushed It. 
away Impatiently 
“ i do not need it. I am better now. You need 
say nothing to—to-Mr. Blair about this, Brett. ’ 
“ No. ma’am," was the quiet answer; and Jean 
rose feebly, and went back to the ball-room, to the 
lights and the laughter, and the glitter and the 
mirth, and forced iter pale Ups Into smiles, and 
tried to seem as If she had her part In the bright 
pageant, and as It all the brightness had not faded 
out of her life 
•• l cannot suffer much more,” Jean thought to 
herself, wearily, when r.he. visitors had departed 
and Blair Gates was quiet again. “ 1 have drained 
the cup of misery lo Its dregs; It. cannot contain 
much more bitterness." 
But there was more to suffer yet The cup was 
not yet empty Almost tho bitterest draught was 
to come—almost the bitterest for Jean, but quite 
the bitterest for those who loved her.—7b Oecon¬ 
tinued, 
--» ♦ ♦-- 
THIRTY REASONS FOR THE PROHIBI¬ 
TION OF THE TRAFFIC OF INTOXICA¬ 
TING LIQUORS. 
1 They deprive men of their reason for the time 
being. 
2. They destroy men of the greatest intellectual 
strength. 
3. They foster and encourage every species of 
immorality. 
4 . They bar the progress of civilization and re¬ 
ligion. 
5 . They destroy the jieace and happiness of tens 
of thousands of families. 
6 They reduce many virtuous wives and chil¬ 
dren to beggary. 
7 . They cause many thousands of murders. 
8. They prevent all reformation of character. 
9 . They render abortive the strongest resolu¬ 
tions 
10 . The millions of property expended In them 
are lost. 
u. They cause the majority of cases or Insanity. 
12. They dest roy both the body and the soul 
is. They burden sober people with millions for 
the support of paupers. 
14. They cause Immense expenditures to prevent 
crime. 
15. They cost sober people Immense sums In 
charity. 
16. They, burden the country with enormous 
taxes 
17 . Because moderate drinkers waut the tempta¬ 
tion removed. 
is. Drunkards waut the opportunity removed. 
19 . Sober people want the nuisance removed. 
20. T&x-payers want the burden removed. 
21. The prohibition would save thousands now 
falling. 
22. The sale exposes our families to destruction. 
23 The sale exposes our persons to Insult 
24 . The sale upholds the vicious and Idle at the 
expense of the industrious and virtuous. 
•iv. The sale subjects the sober to great oppres¬ 
sion. 
26 . it takes tho sober man’s earnings to support 
the drunkard. 
27. It subjects numberless wives to untold suf¬ 
ferings 
as. it is contrary to the Bible. 
29. It Is contrary to common sense. 
30 . We have a right to rid ourselves of the bur 
<ten.—National TVmperanre Stn'letij Tract. 
RECENT LITERATURE. 
Air. Phillips’ Goneness. By the Danbury News 
Man. Boston: Lee & Shepard. Price 50 cents. 
This is one of the hooks for an Idle hour, it 
^escribes characters In a country printing-office, 
and portrays several amusing incidents from the 
experiences of the editor ot an out-of-town news¬ 
paper. The chief character Is Mr. Phillips, who 
makes several futile attempts to declare his ad¬ 
miration for certain young ladles, who reciprocate 
his regard and cause him unprecedented embar¬ 
rassment! The book savors of wit and descriptive 
power peculiar to Its author, and in general tone 
is like earlier publications by the same writer. 
MAGAZINES. 
The Atlantic Monthly for December completes 
an excellent volume, aud year of this standard 
magazine. Like the previous numbers it comprises 
a judicious mingling of admirable stories, papers 
on practical subjects, essays ot biographical »nd 
historic Interest, criticism, and poetry. lr opens 
with “Thirty-Seven Hundred and Fifty-Eight," 
a paper full of curious conjectures In regard to 
civilization. Bctence, and religion when the Chris¬ 
tian era Is twice as old as uow. •* Kansas Farmers 
and Illinois Dairymen " presents some plain facts 
which will interest all who think of mlgra'lngto 
Kansas or Illinois. “Some of Us: A Southwestern 
Sketch " is a capital description of some typical 
southern characters, col. Waring coo tributes a 
useful paper on “The National Board of Health,” 
staling what powers It has, what It has done and 
alms to do, and pointing out the injustice of sundry 
criticisms It has received. Hon- W. A. Phillips, of 
Kansas, describes “Three Interviews with John 
Brown.” Clara Barnes Martin, under the title 
“The Greatest Novelist’s Work tor freedom,” 
shows Turgenefs noble record as a lover and 
champion ot liberty. George Washington Greene 
gives “ Reminiscences of George Grote,” the great 
historian of Greece. Richard Grant White treats 
ot “English Manners.” An anonymous paper of 
no little lnterestls “The Mau who waste have 
Assassinated Napoleon. The Contributors’ Club 
Is even brighter than usual, having a short essay 
on “The Burden of Charity Fair Journals,” evident¬ 
ly- by Mark Twain; and the reviews of new books 
are full, as usual. 
The Atlantic Monthly for 1880 promises to be 
better than ever,—having serial stories by Mr. 
Howells, Mr. James, and Mr. Aldrich, three of the 
brightest and most attractive American story 
writers now living, and all Us other departments 
equally well rilled. 
ENGLisn Manners.— English people Impress you 
first of all by a sense of the genuineness of their 
actions and of their speech. Warm or cold they 
may be, gracious or ungracious, arrogant or con¬ 
siderate, but you feel that they are real. English¬ 
men adulterate their goods, but not their conduct. 
If an Englishman makes you welcome, you leei at 
home; and you know that, within reason, and 
often out of reason, he will look alter your comtort 
—that for your well-being while you are under his 
roor he considers hhnsell responsible. And yet lie 
does not thrust hhnsell upon you, and you may do 
almost whui you choose, and go almost whither 
you will. It he wants you to come to him. he will 
lake more trouble lo bring you than you will to 
go, and yet make nu tuss about it any more I ban 
he does about the sun’s rising, without which he 
would be in darkness. If he meets you and gives 
you two fingers. 11 means only two fingers; 11 his 
w hole hand grasps yours, you have his hand, and 
you have It most warmly at your pairing. His 
speech Is like his action. Ills social word Is hia 
social bond; you may trust him for all that It 
promises, and commonly for more, if you do oot 
understand hint well, you may suppose at first 
that he is Indifferent and careless, until something 
Is done for you, or suggest ed to you, that shows 
you that his friend and his friend s welfare has 
been upon his mind. 
The god of Eugllsh social life next In dignity lo 
mammon Is propriety. Now propriety, rightly 
worshiped, Is a very good god; his very rites are 
sweetness, order, ure-eucy, and in theLr practice 
they involve that consideration for others which 
is the highest form ot morality, and even ot piety. 
But the British l’hmstlr.e (and all England Is more 
or less given over to Philistinism, which Invades 
the very social regions in which it. is most dreaded 
and decried) makes propriety a Moloch, before 
whom he prostrates himself, and betore whom he 
often makes hl3 very children sacrifice some of the 
beauty ot their youthful lives. The highest social 
aim, the greatest social l aw, to this sort of Eng¬ 
lishman is to do the correct thing. Having at¬ 
tained this, he feels that he has absolved himself 
of every social duly, and clothed his soul In pano¬ 
ply of proof. Whether the correct tiling be really 
the right, thing, he does not know, does not seek to 
know-. That so It has been and that so it is, are 
tor him both logic and religion. 1 n his mouth the 
greatest reproach Is “unprecedented;’'' the mere 
statement oi the fact that, an act has not been 
done before, that a word cos not been spoken be¬ 
fore, being to Him Its condemnation. Whereitre 
he lives Ills life surrounded by dead, shriveled 
forms, eyeless, brainless, bloodless, whose only 
voice is from the grave of a dead past. U he 
breaks away from this oppression, he Is likely to 
run into extremes which violate all decency, all 
decorum, all propriety. Freed rrom his accus¬ 
tomed restraint, he Is apt to add a grossness to 
vice w hich makes It more hideous, if not more 
harmful.— Kuhard Grant White, in Dec. Atlantic. 
The Electric Review, published by the l’ul- 
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a large, handsomely Illustrated publication, de¬ 
voted generally to a popular exposition of the 
benefits of electricity as a remedial agent, and par¬ 
ticularly- 10 an explanation oi the uses of the Pulver- 
macher galvanic belts, giving scientific reasons, 
(advanced by such mwi as Dr. Mott, 1’rot. Henry, 
Sir Henry Holland and others) w hy they should 
prove so efficacious in the treatment of most stub¬ 
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