University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.

That evening after tea, Everard began his negotiations
with Mr. Gridley, for the purchase of the much-admired
glen.

“Glen!” said honest Bildad, who sat as usual, pipe
in mouth, by the front window.

Everard explained.

“Why, Lord bless ye! yes, I own two hundred and
seventy-odd acres jist round there; and that 'ere gulf
is part on't. Ahasuerus began to make a clearin' there,
but it 's so plaguily lumber'd up with stuns, and so kind
o' slantin' besides, that we thought it would never pay
for ploughin'. So Hazzy has gone to work up north
here, and gets along like smoke.”

“Would you be willing to sell a small place there?”
inquired Everard, who felt inexpressibly sheepish when
he set about buying this “stunny” spot.

Mr. Gridley stared at him in unfeigned astonishment.

After a moment's pause, he answered, after the manner
of his nation, by asking,

“Why, do you know any body that wants to buy?”

“I have some thoughts of settling here myself,”
said his guest.

Another stare, and the landlord fell to smoking with
all his might, looking withal, full of meditation.

At length—“ You settle here!” he said; “what for,
in all nature?”

“I've taken a fancy to the place,” said Everard; “and
if you choose to sell, I may perhaps be a purchaser.”

“Well!” said the landlord, laying his pipe on the
window-sill, “if this aint the queerest—But I'll tell
ye what, Mr.—I never can think o'your name; if
you really want the place, why, I'll—” but here he
stopt again. He fixed his eyes on Everard, as if he
would look through his mortal coil.

“There's one thing,” proceeded he again, “may I
jist be so sa'acy as to ask you—I do n't know as you'd
think it a very civil question; but I do n't know as
we can get on without it. Are you sure,” speaking
very deliberately—“ are you sure that you 're married
to this young gal?”

“Married!” said Everard, his fine eyes flashing
lightning, while poor Cora, completely humbled, felt
ready to sink through the floor, “Married!” he repeated,
in high indignation, which an instant's pause
served to calm. “I can assure you—I can assure
you—”

And he was flying after Cora, who had slipped out
of the room, but the good man called him back.

“No 'casion, no 'casion? you say you sartinly are,
and that's enough; but ra'ly you and your wife both
look so young, that we 've been plaguily puzzled what
to make on 't.”

Everard, deeply mortified, reverted as speedily as
possible to his desired purchase; and after a few
observations as to the unprofitableness of the scheme,
Mr. Gridley concluded, with an air of kindness, which
soothed the feelings of his young auditor, “You know
your own business best, I dare say; and if so be you
are determined upon it, you may have it, and make
use of it as long as you like; and I 'spose you wont
think o' puttin' up much of a house upon sich a place
as that, when you are tired on 't, we 'll settle the matter
one way or 'tother.”

Everard readily agreed to this proposition, for he
knew himself the avowed heir of the rich bachelor
uncle whose name he bore, and he was little concerned
about the pecuniary part of his affairs.

And there was a house to be built on a green
hill-side in the deep woods; and this grande opus fully
absorbed our friends until it was completed. In taking
possession of it and in arranging the simple requisites
which formed its furniture, Cora found herself happier
than she had been since she left home. It must be
confessed that every day brought its inconveniences;
one can't at first snuff the candle well with the tongs.
Here were neither papa's side-boards nor mamma's
dressing tables; but there was the charm of house-keeping,
and every young wife knows what a charm
that is, for a year or two at least; and then pride
whispered, that whenever papa did find them out, he
would acknowledge how very well they had managed
to be happy in their own way.

After all, it must be confessed, that the fairy-footed
Cora nourished in some unexplored nook of her warm

little heart, a fund of something which she dignified
by the names of resolution, firmness, perseverance, &c.,
but which ill-natured and severe people might perhaps
have been disposed to call obstinacy, or self-will. But
she was a spoiled child, and her boy-husband the most
indulgent of human beings, so we must excuse her if
she was a little naughty as well as very romantic.
The world's harshness soon cures romance, as well as
some other things that we set out with; but Cora had
as yet made no acquaintance with the world, that most
severe of all teachers.

But no word yet of inquiries from home. No advertisements,
no rewards, “no afflicted parents.” This
was rather mortifying. At length Everard ventured to
propose writing to his uncle, and though Cora pretended
to be quite indifferent, she was right glad to have an
excuse for opening a communication with home. But
no answer came. The cold winds of autumn turned
the maple leaves yellow, then scarlet, then brown, and
no letter! The whole face of the earth presented to the
appalled eye of the city-bred beauty, but one expanse
of mud—deep, tenacious, hopeless mud. No walks
either by day or evening; books all read and re-read;
no sewing, for small change of dress suffices in the
woods; no company but squire Bildad or Mrs. Dart,
(the squire's “gal” was teaching school for the winter,
and the interesting Hazzy thought Everard “a queer
stick to set all day in the house a readin,” and did not
much affect his society.)

Deep winter, and no word from New-York.

Everard now wrote to his father, the most indulgent
of fathers; but though he often saw the name of the

well-known firm in a stray newspaper, no notice whatever
was taken of his missives. This was a turn of
affairs for which he was entirely unprepared. Cora
tossed her pretty head, and then cried, and said she did
not care, and cried again. But now a new interest
arose. The prospect of becoming a mother awakened
at once the most intense delight and a terror amounting
almost to agony; and Cora at length wrote to her
mother.

Spring came and with the flowers a little daughter;
and Cora found in the one-eyed, odd-looking widow
the kindest and most motherly of nurses, while Mr.
Gridley and his family kindly interested in their inexperienced
neighbours, were not lacking in aid of any
sort. So Cora made out much better than she deserved.

When she was able to venture out, the good squire
came with his waggon to fetoh her to spend the day by
way of change; and Cora most thankfully accepted
this and the other kindnesses of her rustic friends. A
short residence in the woods modifies most surprisingly
one's views on certain points.

Some travellers emigrating to far Michigan, had
been resting at Mr. Gridley's when Cora spent her day
there, and it was to this unlucky encounter that we
must ascribe the sickening of Cora's darling, who was
after some days attacked with an alarming eruption.
Mrs. Dart declared it the small-pox, and having unfortunately
less judgment than kindness, she curtained its
little bed from every breath of air, and fed it with herb-teas
and other rustic stimulants, till the poor little thing

seemed like to stifle; and just at this juncture Everard
was taken ill, with the same symptoms.

Cora bore up wonderfully for a few days, but the baby
grew worse, and Everard no better. Medical aid was
sought, but the doctor proved quite as much of an old
woman as Mrs. Dart.

The dear baby's strength was evidently diminishing,
the spots in its little cheeks assumed a livid appearance;
Mrs. Dart's pale face grew paler, and Cora awaited
with an agony which might be read in her wild and
vacant eye, the destruction of her hopes. The recollection
of her own undutiful conduct towards her parents
was at her heart, weighing it down like a millstone.
Everard who might have assisted and comforted
her was stretched helpless, and at times slightly
delirious.

“I fear the baby is going,” said the kind widow with
trembling lips.

The wretched mother cast one look at its altered
countenance, and with a wild cry sunk senseless on the
floor. Her punishment was fulfilled.