University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Everard Hastings, a tall, bright-haired, elegant-looking
boy of nineteen, handsome as Antinous, and
indolent as—any body on record, left college with his
head as full of romance and as far from any thing like
plain, practical, common-sense views of life and its
wearisome cares and its imperious duties, as any young
New-Yorker of his standing; and he very soon discovered
that his charming cousin Cora Mansfield was just
the bewitching little beauty for such a hero to fall
shockingly in love with. To be freed from college
restraints and to be deeply in love, were both so delightful,
that Everard “argued sair” to persuade his father
not to be in such haste to immure him in a law-office.
He thought his health rather delicate—exertion certainly
did not agree with him. He passed his slender
fingers through the cherished love-locks which had been
much his care of late; looked in the glass and wished
he was of age and had finished his studies; and then
went and sat the evening with Cora. And though law
did not get on very fast, love made up for it by growing
wondrously.

His diary in those days, if he had found time to keep
a diary, must have run somewhat on this wise:

“Monday morning. Rose at eight. Got to the
office about ten, or pretty soon after. Mr. J. looked a
little dry. Went with Cora at twelve to see—'s
pictures. Took us a long time. Dined at uncle Phil's
—and found all in bed but Pa when I came home.

Tuesday. Overslept. Office at ten, or perhaps a
little after. Mr. J. asked me if I was not well. Vexed
to think how I coloured as I said “not very.” Cora
and I were engaged to make a bridal call with Mrs. L.
Carriage called for me at the office. Dined at uncle
Phil's and went to the theatre with aunt Charlotte and
the girls. Cora grows prettier. Henry Tracy says
she is handsomer than the great beauty Miss—of
Boston.

Wednesday. All dined with us, and company in
the evening. Did not get to the office at all.

Thursday. Rose early. Walked with the girls on
the battery, and breakfasted at uncle Phil's. Felt quite
ill. Rising early never did agree with me. Obliged
to lie on the sofa and have my forehead bathed with
Cologne till it was too late to go to the office. Dined
at uncle Phil's, and rode with girls afterwards,” &c.
&c.

And what were uncle Phil and aunt Charlotte thinking
of all this time? Why, that Everard and Cora
were but children; and that by-and-bye, when the fitting
time should come, a marriage would be just the
very thing most agreeable to all concerned.

When spring came—delicious tempting days of
warm sun and bright skies, both families prepared for

their usual summer flight to their rural palaces on the
North River, not far from town; and Everard pleaded
so hard for one single summer, or part of a summer,
that his father, who was too indulgent by half, gave
way and suffered him to postpone his studies; hoping
of course that Everard would gain studious habits by
sauntering in the woods with his cousins. 'T is pity
parents can so seldom stop at the juste milieu between
weak compliance and severe requisition; but then I
should have had no story to tell, so it is better as it is.

“How fond the children are of each other!” said
Mrs. Hastings to Mrs. Mansfield.

What parent ever thought that a child had arrived
at maturity?

I have heard of an octogenarian who declined staying
two days with a relative because he was afraid
“the boys” could not get along without him; one of
the “boys” a bachelor of fifty, the other a grandfather.
But to return.

Wandering one afternoon over the woody hills which
make so charming a part of those elegant places on
the Hudson, Cora and Everard, by one of those chances
which will occur, spite of all one can do, were separated
from their companions.

“Everard,” said the fair girl, stopping short and
looking around her with delight, “only see! it seems
now as if we were in a lonely wilderness without a single
trace of man but this little path. Would n't it be
charming if it were really so? if there were nobody
within, oh! ever so many miles, but just ourselves—”
she stopped and blushed.

“Ah Cora!” said Everard, passionately, “if you only

loved me half as well as—” but he had not time
to finish, for the little hand which had lain quietly within
his arm, was snatched away, leaving the glove behind
it, and Cora, running away from her own blushes,
was at the river-side quick as lightning.

Love had not blinded Everard's eyes when he called
Cora a beauty. She was a beauty, and of the most
bewitching style too; with eyes of all sorts of colours,
just as as she happened to feel, but the fringing lashes
were always silky-black, and the eyes seemed so too,
to the unconcerned spectator. She might have passed
for one of “Spain's dark-glancing daughters,” if one
looked at her elastic form, and her tiny hands and
feet, but her skin was too exquisitely white to warrant
the supposition, and besides, she had mind enough in
her face to have furnished forth a dozen Senoras.

Imagine such a being, graceful as a sylph, and withal,

And you have Cora Mansfield before you, as she stood
on the beach, every charm heightened by the sudden
exertion, and the confusion into which Everard's last
speech, (of which I gave only an inkling,) had thrown
her.

There had long been a tacit understanding between
the young lovers; but after all, the first words of love
will, whatever may have been the preparation, inevitably
overset a woman's philosophy.

Cora was almost sixteen, reader, and thought herself
a woman at least, though her mother—but that's quite
another thing.

It was sunset before Everard and Cora found their
way back to the house; but they did not stop on the
lawn as usual, to talk about the western sky. Cora's
little heart throbbed audibly, as a heroine's ought; and
as for Everard, he walked with his eyes fixed on the
earth, though he thought only of the bright being beside
him. Both looked most terribly conscious, but
nobody thought of noticing them, and Mrs. Mansfield,
whom they found in the parlour, only said, “Cora,
child, you are very imprudent to be running about after
sunset without your bonnet.”

Now Cora did hate, above all other things, to be
called “child,” and it was quite a comfort to her that
evening to reflect, “Mamma would not be always calling
me child, if she knew—!”

It was not long before Mamma knew all about it, for
there was no motive for concealment, except the extreme
youth of the parties. Everard said three years
would soon pass away, which is very true, though he
did not think so.

I forgot, when I was describing Cora, to say she was
even more deeply tinged with romance than Everard
himself. She lived entirely in an ideal world. Her mind
was her kingdom or her cottage—her ball-room or her
dungeon—as the imaginary drama shifted the unities.
Everard's reveries had in them nothing defined. There
was always a beautiful creature, just like Cora, but the
inferior parts of fancy's sketch were usually rather dim.
With his fairy mistress the case was different. The first
poem her Italian master, the Marquis—, had put into
her hands, had been the Pastor Fido; and the “Care
beate selve” of Amaryllis had been ever since the favourite

theme of her musings. And then the sweet
little enchanting “Isola Disabitata” of Metastasio,
proved, just as young ladies like to have things
proved—that people, nay, women alone, can live in a
wilderness, and even in a desert island; and oh! what
a pretty variety of paradises she wove out of these
slight materials. She was always herself the happy
tenant of a cottage; so happy in herself that even
Everard did not always find a place in the dream.
She had her books, her needle-work, and her music; a
harp of course, or a guitar at the very least; ever-smiling
skies and ever-rippling rivulets; the distant murmur of
a water-fall, or perhaps a boat upon a deep-shaded lake;
and a fair hill-side with some picturesque sheep grazing
upon it.
no thought of dinner, no concern about “the wash,”
no setting of barrels to catch rain-water—oh, dear!
only think of coming to Michigan to realize such
a dream as that!