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, glanced at him, and as if the spirit of prophecy were upon 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 beautiful 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 said, ‘too much good advice in his letters for me to see,’ and thus the time passed on, until Walter, who had entered the junior class, was graduated with honour, 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 yet no thought of proving false to Walter, and in the letter which she wrote informing him of her plan, she assured him of her unchanging fidelity, little dreaming that the promise thus made would so soon be broken! Petted, caressed, flattered and admired, 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 drawingroom. 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 the 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, but, of course, Mr. Douglass will never see it. His hair 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 the 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 followed 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 called on God to help him in this his hour of need, wept such tears as never again would fall for Cora Blanchard.