42. CHAPTER XLII.
On the breast
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest;—
Sweet mother—gentlest mother! can it be?
Mrs. Hemans.
Pros.
If I have too austerely punish'd you
Your compensation makes amends; for I
Have given you here a thread of mine own life—
Here afore Heaven
I ratify this my rich gift.
Tempest.
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp?
As you like it.
She became conscious of resting on a soft bosom—
her hands were gently chafed, and a whispering voice
whose thrilling sounds aroused her very soul, recalled
her to a sense of her situation. She looked first at her
infant's little bed. It was empty.
“My baby! my baby!” she shrieked in agony.
Her mother, her own dear mother, laid it on her bosom
without a word, but she saw that it breathed in a
soft sleep, and tears relieved her bursting heart.
“O mother, mother, can you forgive,” was all that
she could say, and it was enough. Her father too was
there and he took her in his arms, and weeping blest
her and forgave all.
The crisis or turn of the disease, had been so severe
as to assume the aspect of approaching dissolution, and
from that hour the precious baby, (the wilderness is the
place to love children,) began to amend, and the young
papa with it. And then came such long talks, about
the past, the present, and the future; such minute explanations
of all feelings and plans; Everard and Cora
seemed to live a whole year extra in these few weeks
which succeeded the time of this sore trial. And
Cora was a new creature, a rational being, a mother,
a matron, full of sorrow for the past and of sage plans
for the future.
The silent disregard of the letters had been systematic.
The flying pair had been recognized by some person
on their journey westward; and the parents, indulgent
as they were, felt that some atonement was due for
this cruel disregard of their feelings, and forgetfulness
of the common obligations. When months passed on
without any evidence of repentance they felt still more
deeply hurt, as well as seriously anxious; and though
Everard's letters relieved in some measure their solicitude
for the welfare of their undutiful children, it was
not until Cora wrote to her mother, that the visit was
resolved on which proved so opportune and so delightful.
And there was more to be told. Fortune had become
weary of smiling on the long-established house of
Hastings and Mansfield, and heavy losses had much
impaired the worldly means of these worthy people.
The summer-palaces on the Hudson were about to pass
into other hands, and great changes were to be made
in many particulars. And Everard must get his own
living. This was a thing which Cora at least, had never
included in her plans.
After much consultation it was conceded on all
hands that it would be rather awkward returning to
Mr. J.'s office after this little excursion. A frolic is a
frolic to be sure, but people do n't always take the view
we wish them to take of our vagaries. Mr. Mansfield
proposed his Michigan lands.
And Everard and his subdued and humbled but happy
Cora, confessed that they had imbibed a taste for
the wilderness, an unfashionable liking for early rising
and deshabille; a yearning, common to those who have
lived in the free woods,
To forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
Visionary still! says the reader. Perhaps so, but to
Michigan they came, and with a fine large fertile
tract, managed by a practical farmer and his family,
they find it possible to exist, and are, I had almost
said the happiest people of my acquaintance.
