 | Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond |  |
DIAMONDS.
“The boys mustn't look at the girls, and the girls must
look on their books,” was said at least a dozen times by
the village school-master, on that stormy morning when
Cora Blanchard and I—she in her brother's boots, and I in
my father's socks—waded through drift after drift of snow
to the old brown school-house at the foot of the long,
steep hill.
We were the only girls who had dared to brave that
wintry storm, and we felt amply repaid for our trouble,
when we saw how much attention we received from the
ten tall boys who had come—some for fun—some because
they saw Cora Blanchard go by—and one, Walter Beaumont,
because he did not wish to lose the lesson of the
day. Our teacher, Mr. Grannis, was fitting him for college,
and every moment was precious to the white-browed,
intellectual student, who was quite a lion among us girls,
partly because he was older, and partly because he never
noticed us as much as did the other boys. On this occasion,
however, he was quite attentive to Cora, at least,
pulling off her boots, removing her hood, and brushing
the large snow-flakes from her soft wavy hair, while her
dark brown eyes smiled gratefully upon him, as he gave
her his warm seat by the stove.
That morning Cora wrote to me slily on her slate:—“I
poverty—I like him best of any body in the world—don't
you?”
I thought of the big red apple in my pocket, and of
the boy who had so carefully shaken the snow from off
my father's socks, and answered, “No”—thinking, the
while, that I should say yes, if Walter had ever treated
me as he did my playmate and friend Cora Blanchard.
She was a beautiful young girl, a favorite with all, and
possessing, as it seemed, but one glaring fault—a proneness
to estimate people for their wealth rather than their
worth. This in a measure was the result of her home-training,
for her family, though far from being rich, were
very aristocratic, and strove to keep their children as
much as possible from associating with the “vulgar herd,”
as they styled the laboring class of the community. In
her secret heart Cora had long cherished a preference for
Walter, though never, until the morning of which I write,
had it been so openly avowed. And Walter, too, while
knowing how far above him she was in point of position,
had dared to dream of a time when a bright-haired woman,
with a face much like that of the girlish Cora, would
gladden his home, wherever it might be.
That noon, as we sat around the glowing stove, we
played as children will, and it came my turn to “answer
truly whom I intended to marry.” Without a thought of
the big apple, the snowy socks, or of any one in particular,
I replied unhesitatingly—“The one I love best,” and
the question passed on to Cora, who was sitting by the
side of Walter Beaumont. He had not joined in our
sport, but now his eye left his book and rested upon Cora
with an expression half fearful, half expectant. She, too,
her, she said—“I shall not marry the one I love the best,
but the one who has the most money, and can give me
the handsomest diamonds. Sister Fanny has a magnificent
set, and she looks so beautifully when she wears
them.”
Instantly there fell a shadow on Walter Beaumont's
face, and his eye returned again to the Latin lettered
page. But his thoughts were not of what was written
there; he was thinking of the humble cottage on the borders
of the wood, of the rag-carpet on the oaken floor, of
the plain old-fashioned furniture, and of the gentle, loving
woman who called him “her boy,” and that spot her
home. There were no diamonds there—no money—
and Cora, if for these she married, would never be his
wife. Early and late he toiled and studied, wearing his
threadbare coat and coarse brown pants—for an education,
such as he must have, admitted of no useless expenditure,
and the costly gems which Cora craved were not his
to give. In the pure, unselfish love springing up for her
within his heart, there were diamonds of imperishable
value, and these, together with the name he would make
for himself, he would offer her, but nothing more, and for
many weeks there was a shadow on his brow, though he
was kind and considerate to her as of old.
As the spring and summer glided by, however, there
came a change, and when, in the autumn, he left our village
for New Haven, there was a happy, joyous look upon
his face, while a tress of Cora's silken hair was lying next
his heart. Every week he wrote to her, and Cora answered,
always showing to me what she had written, but
never a word of his. “There was too much love,” she
and thus the time passed on, until Walter, who had entered
the junior class, was graduated with honor, and
was about to commence a theological course at Andover,
for he had made the ministry his choice. He was twenty-one
now, and Cora was sixteen. Wondrously beautiful
was she to look upon, with her fair young face, her
soft brown eyes, and wavy hair. And Walter Beaumont
loved her devotedly, believing too, that she in turn loved
him, for one summer afternoon, in the green old woods
which skirted the little village, she had sat by his side,
and with the sunbeams glancing down upon her through
the overhanging boughs, she had told him so, and promised
some day to be his wife. Still, she would not hear
of a positive engagement—both should be free to change
their mind if they wished, she said, and with this Walter
was satisfied.
“I have no diamonds to give you, darling,” he said,
drawing her close to him; and Cora, knowing to what he
referred, answered that “his love was dearer to her than
all the world besides.” Alas, that woman should be so
fickle!
The same train which carried Walter away, brought
Mrs. Blanchard a letter from her daughter, a dashing,
fashionable woman, who lived in the city, and who wished
to bring her sister Cora “out” the coming winter. “She
is old enough now,” she wrote, “to be looking for a husband,
and of course she'll never do anything in that by-place.”
This proposition, which accorded exactly with Mrs.
Blanchard's wishes, was joyfully acceded to by Cora, who,
while anticipating the pleasure which awaited her, had
letter which she wrote informing him of her plan, she
assured him of her nnchanging fidelity, little dreaming
that the promise thus made would so soon be broken!
Petted, caressed, flattered and admired, as she was in the
circle of her sister's friends, how could she help growing
worldly and vain, or avoid contrasting the plain, unassuming
Walter, with the polished and gayly-dressed butterflies
who thronged Mrs. Burton's drawing-room. When
the summer came again, she did not return to us as we
had expected, but we heard of her at Saratoga, and Newport,
the admired of all admirers; while one, it was said,
a man of high position and untold wealth, bid fair to win
the beauteous belle. Meantime, her letters to Walter
grew short and far between, ceasing at length altogether;
and one day, during the second winter of her residence in
the city, I received from her a package containing his
miniature, the books he had given her, and the letters he
had written. These she wished me to give him when
next I saw him, bidding me tell him to think no more of
one who was not worthy of him.
“To be plain, Lottie,” she wrote, “I'm engaged, and
though Mr. Douglass is not a bit like Walter, he has a
great deal of money, drives splendid horses, and I reckon
we shall get on well enough. I wish, though, he was not
quite so old. You'll be shocked to hear that he is almost
fifty, though he looks about forty! I know I don't like
him as well as I did Walter, but after seeing as much of
the world as I have, I could not settle down into the wife
of a poor minister. I am not good enough, and you must
tell him so. I hope he won't feel badly—poor Walter.
I've kept the lock of his hair. I couldn't part with that;
is gray! Good-by.”
This was what she wrote, and when I heard from her
again, she was Cora Douglass, and her feet were treading
the shores of the old world, whither she had gone on a
bridal tour.
In the solitude of his chamber, the young student
learned the sad news from a paragraph in a city paper,
and bowing his head upon the table, he strove to articulate,
“It is well,” but the flesh was weak, warring with
the spirit, and the heart which Cora Blanchard had cruelly
trampled down, clung to her still with a death-like fondness,
and following her even across the waste of waters,
cried out—“How can I give her up!” But when he remembered,
as he ere long did, that 'twas a sin to love her
now, he buried his face in his hands, and, calling on God
to help him in this his hour of need, wept such tears as
never again would fall for Cora Blanchard.
The roses in our garden were faded, and the leaves of
autumn were piled upon the ground, ere he came to his
home again, and I had an opportunity of presenting him
with the package which many months before had been
committed to my care. His face was very pale, and his
voice trembled as he asked me—“Where is she now?”
“In Italy,” I answered, adding that “her husband was
said to be very wealthy.”
Bowing mechanically, he walked away, and a year and
a half went by ere I saw him again. Then he came
among us as our minister. The old, white-haired pastor,
the better land, was sleeping at last in the quiet grave-yard,
and the people had chosen young Walter Beaumont
to fill his place. He was a splendid-looking man—
tall, erect, and finely formed, with a most winning manner,
and a face which betokened intellect of the highest order.
We were proud of him, all of us—proud of our clergyman,
who, on the third Sabbath in June, was to be ordained
in the old brick church, before whose altar he had years
ago been baptized, a smiling infant.
On the Thursday afternoon preceding the ordination, a
large traveling carriage, covered with dust and laden
with trunks, passed slowly through our village, attracting
much attention. Seated within it was a portly, gray-haired
man, resting his chin upon a gold-headed cane,
and looking curiously out at the people in the street, who
stared as curiously at him. Directly opposite him, and
languidly reclining upon the soft cushions, was a white,
proud-faced lady, who evidently felt no interest in what
was passing around her, for her eyes were cast down,
and her thought seemed busy elsewhere. I was sitting at
my chamber window, gazing out upon them, and just as
they drew near the gate, the lady raised her eyes—the
soft, brown eyes, which once had won the love of Walter
Beaumont, and in which there was now an unmistakeable
look of anguish, as if the long eyelashes, drooping so
wearily upon the colorless cheek, were constantly forcing
back the hidden tears. And this was Cora Douglass,
come back to us again from her travels in a foreign
land! She knew me in a moment, and in her face there
was much of her olden look as, bending forward, she
smiled a greeting, and waved toward me her white,
in the sunlight.
The next morning we met, but not in the presence of
the old man, her husband. Down in the leafy woods,
about a quarter of a mile from Mrs. Beaumont's cottage,
was a running brook and a mossy bank, overshadowed
by the sycamore and elm. This, in the days gone by, had
been our favorite resort. Here had we built our playhouse,
washing our bits of broken china in the rippling
stream—here had we watched the little fishes as they
darted in and out of the deeper eddies—here had we
conned our daily tasks—here had she listened to a tale of
love, the memory of which seemed but a mocking dream,
and here, as I faintly hoped, I found her. With a half-joyful,
half-moaning cry, she threw her arms around my
neck, and I could feel her tears dropping upon my face
as she whispered, “Oh, Lottie, Lottie, we have met again
by the dear old brook.”
For a few moments she sobbed as if her heart would
break, then suddenly drying her tears, she assumed a calm,
cold, dignified manner, such as I had never seen in Cora
Blanchard. Very composedly she questioned me of what
I had done during her absence, telling me, too, of her
travels, of the people she had seen and the places she
had visited, but never a word said she of him she called
her husband. From the bank where we sat, the village
grave-yard was discernible, with its marble gleaning
through the trees, and at last, as her eye wandered in
that direction, she said, “Have any of our villagers died?
Mother's letters were never very definite.”
“Yes,” I answered, “Our minister, Mr. Sumner, died
two months ago.”
“Who takes his place?” she asked; and, as if a suspicion
of the truth were flashing upon her, her eyes turned
toward me with an eager, startled glance.
“Walter Beaumont. He is to be ordained next Sabbath,
and you are just in time,” I replied, regretting my
words the next instant, for never saw I so fearful a look
of anguish as that which swept over her face, and was
succeeded by a cold, hard, defiant expression, scarcely less
painful to witness.
She would have questioned me of him, I think, had not
an approaching footstep caught our ear, sending a crimson
flush to Cora's hitherto marble cheek, and producing
on me a most unpleasant sensation, for I knew that the
gray-haired man now within a few paces of us, was he
who called that young creature his wife. Golden was
the chain by which he had bound her, and every link was
set with diamonds and costly stones, but it had rusted
and eaten to her very heart's core, for the most precious
gem of all was missing from that chain—love for her husband,
who, fortunately for his own peace of mind, was
too conceited to dream how little she cared for him. He
was not handsome, and still many would have called him
a fine looking, middle-aged man, though there was something
disagreeable in his thin, compressed lips and intensely
black eyes—the one betokening a violent temper, and
the other an indomitable will. To me he was exceedingly
polite—rather too much so for my perfect ease, while toward
Cora he tried to be very affectionate.
Seating himself at her side, and throwing his arm
around her, he called her a “little truant,” and asked
“why she had run away from him.”
Half pettishly she answered, “Because I like sometimes
asked if “the water still ran over the old mill dam in the
west woods just as it used to do,” saying if it did, she
wished to see it. “You can't go,” she continued, addressing
her husband, “for it is more than a mile, over fences
and plowed fields.”
This was sufficient, for Mr. Douglass was very fastidious
in all matters pertaining to his dress, and had no fancy for
soiling his white pants, or patent leathers. So Cora and
I set off together, while he walked slowly back to the
village. Scarcely was he out of sight, however, when,
seating herself beneath a tree, and throwing her flat upon
the ground, Cora announced her intention of not going
any further.
“I only wished to be alone. I beathe so much better,”
she said, and when I looked inquiringly at her, she continued,
“Never marry a man for his wealth, Lottie, unless
you wish to become as hard, as wicked and unhappy as I
am. John Douglass is worth more than half a million,
and yet I would give it all if I were the same liitle girl
who, six years ago, waded with you through the snowdrifts
to school on that stormy day. Do you remember
what we played that noon and my foolish remark that I
would marry for money and diamonds! Woe is me, I've
won them both!” and her tears fell fast on the sparkling
gems which covered her slender fingers.
Just then I saw in the distance a young man whom I
knew to be Walter Beaumont. He seemed to be approaching
us, and when Cora became aware of that, she
started up and grasping my arm, hurried away, saying, as
she cast backward a fearful glance, “I would rather die
than meet him now. I am not prepared.”
For the remainder of the way we walked on in silence,
until we reached her mother's gate, where we found her
husband waiting for her. Bidding me good morning she
followed him slowly up the graveled walk and I saw her
no more until the following Sabbath. It was a gloriously
beautiful morning, and at an early hour the old brick
church was filled to overflowing, for Walter had many
friends, and they came together gladly to see him made a
minister of God. During the first part of the service he
was very pale, and his eye wandered often toward the
large, square pew where sat a portly man and a beautiful
young woman, richly attired in satin and jewels. It had
cost her a struggle to be there, but she felt that she must
look again on one whom she had loved so much and so
deeply wronged. So she came, and the sight of him
standing there in his early manhood, his soft brown hair
clustering about his brow, and his calm, pale face wearing
an expression almost angelic, was more than she
could bear, and leaning forward she kept her countenance
concealed from view until the ceremony was ended, and
Walter's clear, musical voice announced the closing hymn.
Then she raised her head, and her face, seen through the
folds of her costly veil, looked haggard and ghastly, as
if a fierce storm of passion had swept over her. By the
door she paused, and when the newly-ordained clergyman
passed out, she offered him her hand, the hand which,
when he held it last, was pledged to him. There were
diamonds on it now—diamonds of value rare, but their
brightness was hateful to that wretched woman, for she
knew at what a fearful price they had been bought.
They did not meet again, and only once more did Walter
see her; then, from our door, he looked out upon her
long cloth skirt almost sweeping the ground, and the
plumes of her velvet cap waving in the air.
“Mrs. Douglass is a fine rider,” was all Walter said,
and the tone of his voice indicated that she was becoming
to him an object of indifference. Desperately had
he fought with his affection for her, winning the victory
at last, and now the love he once had felt for her was
slowly and surely dying out. The next week, tiring of
our dull village life, Cora left us, going to Nahant, where
she spent most of the summer, and when in the winter
we heard from her again, she was a widow—the sole heir
of her husband who had died suddenly, and generously
left her that for which she married him—his money.
“Will Walter Beaumont marry Cora now?” I had
asked myself many a time, without, however, arriving at
any definite conclusion, when a little more than a year
succeeding Mr. Douglass's death, she wrote, begging me
to come to her, as she was very lonely, and the presence
of an old friend would do her good. I complied with
her request, and within a few days was an inmate of her
luxurious home, where every thing indicated the wealth
of its possessor. And Cora, though robed in deepest
black, was more like herself, more like the Cora of other
days, than I had seen her before since her marriage.
Of her husband she spoke freely and always with respect,
saying he had been kinder far to her than she had deserved.
Of Walter, too, she talked, appearing much
gratified when I told her how he was loved and appreciated
by his people.
One morning when we sat together in her little sewing
room, she said, “I have done what you, perhaps, will
Beaumont. Look,” and she placed in my hand a letter,
which she bade me read. It was a wild, strange
thing, telling him of the anguish she had endured,
of the tears she had shed, of the love which through all
she had cherished for him, and begging of him to forgive
her if possible, and be to her again what he had been
years ago. She was not worthy of him, she said, but he
could make her better, and in language the most touching,
she besought of him not to cast her off, or despise
her because she had stepped so far aside from womanly
delicacy as to write to him this letter. “I will not insult
you,” she wrote in conclusion, “by telling you of
the money for which I sold myself, but it is mine now,
lawfully mine, and most gladly would I share it with
you.”
“You will not send him this?” I said. “You cannot
be in earnest?”
But she was determined, and lest her resolution should
give way, she rang the bell, ordering the servant who appeared
to take it at once to the office. He obeyed, and
during the day she was unusually gay, singing snatches
of old songs, and playing several lively airs upon her
piano, which for months had stood unopened and untouched.
That evening, as the sun went down, and the
full moon rose over the city, she asked me to walk with
her, and we, ere long, found ourselves several streets distant
from that in which she lived. Groups of people
were entering a church near by, and from a remark
which we overheard, we learned that there was to be a
wedding.
“Let us go in,” she said, “it may be some one I know,”
the altar.
Scarcely were we seated when a rustling of satin announced
the approach of the bridal party, and in a moment
they appeared moving slowly up the aisle. My first
attention was directed toward the bride, a beautiful young
creature, with a fair sweet face, and curls of golden hair
falling over her white, uncovered neck.
“Isn't she lovely?” I whispered; but Cora did not hear
me.
With her hands locked tightly together, her lips firmly
compressed, and her cheeks of an ashen hue, she was
gazing fixedly at the bridegroom, on whom I, too, now
looked, starting quickly, for it was our minister, Walter
Beaumont! The words were few which made them one,
Walter and the young girl at his side, and when the ceremony
was over, Cora arose, and leaning heavily upon my
arm, went out into the open air, and on through street
after street, until her home was reached. Then, without
a word, we parted—I going to my room, while she,
through the live-long night, paced up and down the long
parlors where no eye could witness the working of the
mighty sorrow which had come upon her.
The next morning she was calm, but very, very pale,
saying not a word of last night's adventure. Neither
did she speak of it for several days, and then she said,
rather abruptly, “I would give all I possess if I had
never sent that letter. The mortification is harder to bear
even than Walter's loss. But he will not tell of it, I'm
sure. He is too good—too noble,” and tears, the first she
had shed since that night, rained through her thin, white
fingers. It came at last—a letter bearing Walter's superscription,
as she had expected, his wedding card, while on a tiny
sheet was written, “God pity you, Cora, even as I do.—
Walter.”
“Walter! Walter!” she whispered, and her quivering
lips touched once the loved name which she was never
heard to breathe again.
From that day Cora Douglass faded, and when the
autumnal days were come, and the distant hills were
bathed in the hazy October light, she died. But not in
the noisy city, for she had asked to be taken home, and in
the pleasant room where we had often sat together, she
bade me her last good-by. They buried her on the Sabbath,
and Walter's voice was sad and low as with Cora's
coffin at his feet he preached from the words, “I am the
Resurrection and the Life.” His young wife, too, wept
over the early dead, who had well nigh been her rival,
and whose beautiful face wore a calm, peaceful smile, as
if she were at rest.
There was a will, they said, and in it Walter was generously
remembered, while to his wife was given an ivory
box, containing Cora's diamonds—necklace, bracelets, pin
and ear-rings—all were there; and Walter, as he looked
upon them, drew nearer to him his fair girl-wife, who but
for these, might not, perchance, have been to him what
she was—his dearest earthly treasure.
| Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond | |