At that moment—recalled, perhaps, by a chance similarity in position, gesture, or expression—came over him, like a sudden chill and darkness, the memory of his last interview with Cornelia.
CHAPTER XVI.
PARTING AN ANCHOR.
Cornelia, upon her arrival in New York, had been met at the station by an emissary of Aunt Margaret, and conducted to a country-seat some distance up the river. Four or five young ladies were already assembled there, and as many young gentlemen came up on afternoon trains, and availed themselves of Aunt Margaret's hospitality, until business called them to the city again the nest morning, except that on Saturdays they brought an extra change or two of raiment, to tide them over the blessed rest of Sunday.
"I've been so ill, my love—how sweet and fresh you do look! Give your auntie a kiss—there. Oh! you naughty girl, how jealous all the girls will be of those eyes of yours!—so ill—such dreadful sick-headaches—oh, yes! I'm a great sufferer, dear, a great sufferer—but no one, hardly, knows it. I tell you, you know, dear, because you are my own darling little Cornelia. Oh! those sweet eyes! So ill—so unable, you know, to be up and doing—to be as I should wish to be—as I once was—as you are now, you—splendid—creature—you! Now you must let me speak my heart out to you, dear; it's my nature to do it, and I can't restrain, it—foolish I know, but I always was so foolish! oh dear! well—Ah! there's the first bell already. Let me show you your room, darling. As I was going to say, I've been so indisposed that I've been obliged to pet myself up a little here, before starting on our tour, you know, but in a week I mean to be well again—I will be. Oh! I have immense resolution, dear Neelie—immense fortitude, where those I love are concerned. There, this is your little nest—now one more kiss. Oh! those sweet lips! Remember you sit by me at dinner."
"What a funny old woman Aunt Margaret is!" said Cornelia to herself, after she had closed the door of her chamber. "Such a queer voice—goes away up high, and then away down low, all in the same sentence. And what a small head for such a tall woman! and she's so thin! I do hope she won't go on kissing me so much with her big mouth! how fast she does twist it about! and then her front teeth stick out so! and she keeps shoving that great black ear-trumpet at me, whenever she thinks I want to speak; and her eyes are as pale and watery as they can be, and they look all around you and never at you. Well, it's very mean of me to criticise the old thing so; she's as kind as she can be. I wonder whether she knows Mr. Bressant; her manner reminds me sometimes of him; in a horrid way, of course, but—poor fellow! what is he doing now, I'd like to know!" Here Cornelia's meditations became very profound and private indeed; she, meanwhile, in her material capacity, making such alterations and improvements in her personal appearance as were necessary to prepare herself for the table.
Every few minutes—oftener than any circumstances could have warranted—she pulled a handsome gold watch out of her belt and consulted it. She did not, to be sure, seem solely anxious to know the hour; she bent down and examined the enameled face minutely; watched the second-hand make its tiny circuit; pressed the smooth crystal against her cheek; listened to the ceaseless beating of its little golden heart. That golden heart, it seemed to her, was a connecting link between Bressant's and her own. He had set it going, and it should be her care that it never stopped; for at the hour in which it ran down—such was Cornelia's superstitious idea—some lamentable misfortune would surely come to pass.
The dinner-bell sounded; she put her watch back into her belt, bestowing a loving little pat upon it, by way of temporary adieu. Then, feeling pretty hungry, she ran down the broad, soft-carpeted stairs, with their wide mahogany banisters—she would have sat upon the latter and slid down if she had dared—and entering the dining-room, which was furnished throughout with yellow oak, even to the polished floor, she took her place by her hostess's side. She had already been presented to the fashionable guests who sat around the ample table, and a good deal of the awe which she had felt in anticipation, had begun to ooze away. Although much was said that was unintelligible to her, she could see that this was not the result of intellectual deficiency on her part, but merely of an ignorance of the ground on which the conversation was founded. As Cornelia stole glances at the faces, pretty or pretentious, of the young ladies, or at the mustaches, whiskers, or carefully-parted hair of the young gentlemen, it did not seem to her that she could call herself essentially the inferior of any one of them. As to what they thought of her, she could only conjecture; but the gentlemen were extravagantly polite—according to her primitive ideas of that much-abused virtue—and the ladies were smiling, full of pretty attitudes, small questions, and accentuated comments. No one of them, nor of the young men either, seemed to be very hungry; but Cornelia had her usual unexceptionable appetite, and ate stoutly to satisfy it; she even tasted a glass of Italian wine at dessert, upon the assurance of Aunt Margaret that "she must—really must—it would never do to come to New York without learning how to drink wine, you know;" and upon the word of the young gentleman who sat next to her that it wouldn't hurt her a bit—all wines were medicinal—Italian wines especially so; and so, indeed, it proved, for Cornelia thought she had never felt so genial a glow of sparkling life in her veins. She was good-natured enough to laugh at any thing, and brilliant enough to make anybody else laugh; and the evening passed away most pleasantly.
But Cornelia was no fool, to be made a butt of; and her personality was too vigorous, her individuality too strong, not to make an impression and way of its own wherever she was. The young ladies tried in vain to patronize her: they had not the requisite capital in themselves; and the young gentlemen soon gave up the attempt to make fun of her; her vitality was too much for them, and they were, moreover, disconcerted by her beauty. Miss Valeyon, however, was new to the world, and her curiosity and vanity had large, unsatisfied appetites. To have been patronized and made fun of would have done her little or no harm; but in gratifying these appetites she might do a good deal of harm to herself.