CORA.
The last notes of a favorite waltz resounded through the splendid
saloons of Mrs. Montresor's mansion in Grosvenor Square; sparkling eyes
and glittering jewels flashed in the lamp-light; the rival queens of
rank and beauty shone side by side upon the aristocratic crowd; the
rich perfumes of exotic blossoms floated on the air; brave men and
lovely women were met together to assist the farewell ball given by the
wealthy American, Mrs. Montresor, on her departure for New Orleans with
her lovely niece, Adelaide Horton, whose charming face and sprightly
manners had been the admiration of all London during the season of 1860.
The haughty English beauties were by no means pleased to see the
sensation made by the charms of the vivacious young American, whose
brilliant and joyous nature contrasted strongly with the proud and
languid daughters of fashion who entrenched themselves behind a barrier
of icy reserve, which often repelled their admirers.
Adelaide Horton was a gay and light-hearted being. Born upon the
plantation of a wealthy father, the cries of beaten slaves had never
disturbed her infant slumbers; for the costly mansion in which the baby
heiress was reared was far from the huts of the helpless creatures who
worked sometimes sixteen hours a day to swell the planter's wealth. No
groans of agonized parents torn from their unconscious babes; no cries
of outraged husbands, severed from their newly-wedded wives, had ever
broken Adelaide's rest. She knew nothing of the slave trade; as at a
very early age the planter's daughter had been sent to England for her
education. Her father had died during her absence from America, and
she was thus left to the guardianship of an only brother, the present
possessor of Horton Ville, as the extensive plantation and magnificent
country seat were called.
On Adelaide attaining her eighteenth year, her aunt, Mrs. Montresor, an
inhabitant of New York, and the widow of a rich merchant, had crossed
the Atlantic at Augustus Horton's request, for the purpose of giving
her niece a season in London, and afterward escorting her back to
Louisiana.
She found Adelaide all that her most anxious relatives could have
wished--elegant, accomplished, fashionable, well-bred; a little
frivolous, perhaps, but what of that, since her lot in life was to be
a smooth and easy one. Mrs. Montresor was delighted, and expressed her
gratification very warmly to the Misses Beaumont, of West Brompton, in
whose expensive but fashionable seminary Adelaide had been educated.
In an ante-chamber leading out of the crowded ball-room--an
ante-chamber where the atmosphere was cool, and where the close
neighborhood of a fountain plashing into its marble basin in an
adjoining conservatory refreshed the wearied ear, two young men lounged
lazily upon a satin-covered couch, watching the dancers through the
open ball-room door.
The first of these young men was a South American, Mortimer Percy, the
partner of Augustus Horton, and the first cousin of the planter and his
pretty sister Adelaide.
Mortimer Percy was a handsome young man. His fair, curling hair
clustered round a broad and noble forehead; his large clear blue eyes
sparkled with the light of intellect; his delicate aquiline nose and
chiseled nostrils bespoke the refinement of one who was by nature a
gentleman; but a satirical expression spoiled an otherwise beautiful
mouth, and an air of languor and weariness pervaded his appearance. He
seemed one of those who have grown indifferent to life, careless alike
of its joys and sorrows.
His companion contrasted strongly with him both in appearance and
manner. With a complexion bronzed by exposure to Southern suns, with
flashing black eyes, a firm but flexible mouth, shaded with a silky
raven mustache, and thick black hair brushed carelessly back from his
superb forehead, Gilbert Margrave, artist, engineer, philanthropist,
poet, seemed the very type of manly energy.
The atmosphere of a crowded ball-room appeared unnatural to him. That
daring spirit was out of place amidst the narrow conventionalities of
fashionable life; the soaring nature needed wide savannas and lofty
mountain tops, distant rivers and sounding waterfalls; the artist and
poet mind sighed for the beautiful--not for the beautiful as we see it
in a hot-house flower, imprisoned in a china vase, but as it lurks in
the gigantic cup of the Victoria regia on the broad bosom of the mighty
Amazon.
But Gilbert Margrave was one of the lions of 1860. An invention in
machinery, which had enriched both the inventor and the cotton spinners
of Manchester, had made the young engineer celebrated, and when it was
discovered that he belonged to a good Somersetshire family, that he was
handsome and accomplished, an artist and a poet, invitations flocked in
upon him from all the fashionable quarters of the West End.
He had been silent for some time, his gaze riveted upon one of the
brilliant groups in the ball-room, when Mortimer Percy tapped him
lightly on the shoulder with his gloved hand.
"Why, man, what are you dreaming of?" he said, laughing; "what
entrancing vision has enchained your artist glance? What fairy form
has bewitched your poet soul? One would think you were amid solitudes
of some forest on the banks of the Danube instead of a ball-room in
Grosvenor Square. Confess, my Gilbert, confess to your old friend, and
reveal the nymph whose spells have transformed you into some statue."
Gilbert smiled at his friend's sally. The two young men had met
upon the Continent, and had traveled together through Germany and
Switzerland.
"The nymph is no other than yonder lovely girl, talking to your cousin,
Miss Horton," said Gilbert; "look at her, Mortimer, watch the graceful
head, the silky raven hair, as she bends down to whisper to her
companion. Is she not lovely?"
Few who looked upon the young girl of whom Gilbert Margrave spoke,
could well have answered otherwise than in the affirmative. She was
indeed lovely in the first blush of youth, with the innocence of an
angel beaming in every smile; with the tenderness of a woman lying
shadowed in the profound depths of her almond-shaped black eyes.
Features, delicately molded and exquisitely proportioned; a tiny
rosebud mouth; a Grecian nose; a complexion fairer than the ungathered
lily hiding deep in an untrodden forest; it was difficult for the
imagination of the poet, or the painter, to picture aught so beautiful.
"Is she not lovely?" repeated Gilbert Margrave.
The young South American put his head critically on one side, with the
calculating glance with which a connoisseur in the fine arts regards a
valuable picture. The used-up Mortimer Percy made it a rule never to
commit himself by admiring anything, or anybody.
"Hum--ha!" he muttered thoughtfully; "yes, she's by no means
bad-looking."
"By no means bad-looking!" cried Gilbert Margrave, impatiently; "you
cold-hearted automaton, how dare you speak of womanly perfection in
such a manner. She's an angel, a goddess--a siren--a--"
"You'll have an attack of apoplexy, Margrave, if you go on in this
way," said Mortimer, laughing.
"Can you tell me who she is?"
"No. But I can do more. I can tell you what she is."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that your angel, your nymph, your goddess, your siren is--a
slave."
"A slave?" exclaimed Gilbert.
"Yes. The African blood runs in those purple veins. The hereditary
curse of slavery hovers over that graceful and queen-like head."
"But her skin is fairer than the lily."
"What of that? Had you been a planter, Gilbert, you would have been
able to discover, as I did, when just now I stood close to that lovely
girl, the fatal signs of her birth. At the extreme corner of the eye,
and at the root of the finger nails, the South American can always
discover the trace of slavery, though but one drop of the blood of the
despised race tainted the object upon whom he looked."
"But this girl seems an intimate friend of your cousin, Adelaide; who
can she be?" asked Gilbert.
"Yes, that is the very thing that puzzles me. Adelaide must be utterly
ignorant of her origin, or she would never treat as a friend one who,
on the other side of the Atlantic, would be her lady's maid. But hush,
here comes my aunt, she will be able to tell us all about her beautiful
guest."
Mrs. Montresor was still a handsome woman. She bore a family likeness
to her nephew, Mortimer, who was the only son of her sister, while
Adelaide and Augustus Horton were the children of her brother. Her fair
ringlets had, as yet, escaped the hand of Time. No tell-tale streaks
of gray had stolen amid the showering locks. Her blue eyes were as
bright as those of a girl, and shone with the light of good humor and
benevolence. She was not only a handsome woman, she was a lovable one.
The young instinctively clung to her, and felt that within that ample
bosom beat a kindly heart, which a long summer of prosperity had never
rendered callous to the woes of others.
"Come, gentlemen!" she said, gayly, as she approached the two friends;
"this is really too bad! Here you are lolling on a sofa, 'wasting your
sweetness on the desert air,' while I have, at least, half a dozen
pretty girls waiting for eligible partners for the next waltz. As for
you, Mortimer," she added, shaking her perfumed fan, threateningly at
her nephew; "you are really incorrigible; poor Adelaide does not even
know you are here."
"I came in late, my dear aunt, and I saw that both you and my cousin
were so surrounded by admirers, it was quite impossible to approach
you."
"A pretty excuse, sir, which neither I nor Adelaide will accept," said
Mrs. Montresor, laughing.
"And then, again, I wanted to have a chat with Gilbert."
"Out upon your gallantry, sir; you preferred talking to Mr. Margrave to
dancing with your cousin and affianced bride?"
"I am not a very good dancer; I am apt to tread upon the ladies' lace
flounces, and get my heels entangled in the spurs of young dragoons. I
really thought my cousin would rather be excused."
"Indeed, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Montresor, evidently rather annoyed by
her nephew's indifference; "I should not be surprised if Adelaide
should one day ask to be excused from marrying you."
"Good gracious!" cried young Mortimer, playing with his watch chain;
"do you think my cousin is not very violently in love with me?"
"Violently in love with you? coxcomb! But, joking apart, really,
Mortimer, you are the coldest, most unpoetical, soulless creature I
ever met with."
"My dear aunt," said Mortimer, apologetically, "I will freely own that
I am not a very sentimental person. But what of that? My intended
marriage with my cousin, Adelaide, is by no means a romantic affair.
In the first place, Augustus Horton and I are partners. My marriage
with his sister is therefore advisable, on the ground of commercial
interests. That is reason number one, not very romantic to begin with.
Reason number two is this; you have two nephews and one niece; you
wish your favorite nephew (meaning me) to marry your niece, in order
that one of these days, having no children of your own, you may leave
them the bulk of your fortune. There's nothing particularly romantic
in this. You say to the two young people, 'Marry,' and the two young
people say, 'Very well, we're agreeable!' and behold the business is
settled. Very advisable, and very proper, no doubt, but not a subject
for romance, my dear aunt."
"Bah, Mortimer, you're incorrigible; but I know that at the bottom
of your heart you're very much in love with your pretty cousin,
notwithstanding your pretending indifference."
"Come, then, my best of aunts. Forgive your most perverse of nephews,
and answer me one question, for the benefit of Gilbert Margrave here,
who has been bewitched by one of the lilies of your ball-room."
"Indeed, and pray who is the lady?"
"That is the very question we want you to answer," replied Mortimer,
leading his aunt to the curtained doorway of the ball-room. "See, there
she is, that dark-eyed girl, talking to my cousin Adelaide."
"That is Miss Leslie."
"What Miss Leslie?"
"The daughter of Mr. Gerald Leslie, of New Orleans."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mortimer.
"Yes. But you seem surprised."
"I am a little," replied the young man, thoughtfully; "I did not know
Leslie had a daughter."
"But you see he has, since she is an intimate friend of Adelaide's."
"How did they become acquainted?"
"They were educated at the same school."
"Indeed. She is a very lovely girl, and you must be good enough to
introduce us to her, by-and-by."
"Take care, Mortimer," said his aunt; "you are surely not going to fall
in love with Miss Leslie."
"Not the least danger, my dear aunt. Though I would not say as much for
poor Gilbert here."
"Pshaw! Mortimer," exclaimed the young artist, reddening; "it is the
painter's privilege to admire beauty without loving it."
"No doubt of it, my dear boy," answered Mortimer; "but unfortunately,
sometimes a certain little rosy-legged gentleman, with a bow and
arrows, called Cupid, steps in; the painter forgets his privilege, and
the man falls in love with the artist's model."
"Well, I must leave you, gentlemen," said Mrs. Montresor; "I think
I see Adelaide and Miss Leslie coming this way, so if you want an
introduction to the young South American you must obtain it through my
niece. Au revoir, naughty boys!"
"Stay, my dear aunt, you will forgive Mr. Margrave when I tell you that
he is as determined an abolitionist as yourself, or any of your friends
in New York. He means sailing for South America in a month, armed with
some new inventions in machinery, which he declares ought to supercede
slave labor."
"Yes, madam," said Gilbert, earnestly; "your nephew well knows my
opinion upon this subject, and though his interests may be allied to
the hateful barter, which should call a blush to the cheek of every
honest American, I know that his heart is with us, the abolitionists of
slavery."
"Let me shake hands with you, Mr. Margrave," exclaimed Mrs. Montresor;
"I declare to you that so hateful to me is the slave trade, and all
connected with it, that were it not necessary for me to escort my niece
home and assist at her marriage with this hare-brained boy, I would
never again set foot upon the accursed soil of Louisiana; but I must
not say more to you now, for here come the young ladies. Adelaide is
but a child as yet, and has never thought seriously of the matter;
while her brother Augustus, like his father before him, is a determined
advocate of slavery. Once more, adieu!" and the elegant, although
portly, Mrs. Montresor glided from the room, her rich robes of sky-blue
moire antique rustling around her.
"Gilbert," said Mortimer, hurriedly, as soon as his aunt was out of
hearing, "remember, I beg, do not breathe to a mortal one hint of what
I just now told you, with regard to Miss Leslie's origin. I suspect
some painful mystery here, and I would not, for the world, that any
idle talk of mine should cause this poor girl's gentle heart one throb
of sorrow or one thrill of shame."
"You may rely upon me, Mortimer," exclaimed Gilbert, with enthusiasm.
"My lips are sealed forever."
He had scarcely spoken, when the two young girls approached, arm-in-arm.
There was a marked contrast between the two friends. Young as Adelaide
Horton was, she had already all the finished elegance and easy
confidence of a woman of fashion. Frivolous, capricious, and something
of a coquette, she was born to charm in a ball-room, and to shine in
a crowd. Cora Leslie was a creature of an utterly different nature.
Like some wild flower from the luxuriant forests of her native South
she seemed destined to bloom with a sweeter perfume in loneliness. To
blossom for the silent stars and the midnight skies; to expand her
fairest petals to the sunshine of one loving heart.
"I do not care to see my cousin just now," said Mortimer, "so I will
leave you, Gilbert, to make yourself agreeable to the young ladies,
while I go and smoke a cigar in the balcony opening out of the
conservatory."
The young man strolled through the curtained doorway, leading into the
cool retreat, as his cousin and her friend entered from the ball-room.
"Here, at least, my dear Cora, we shall be able to breathe," said
Adelaide, as the two girls approached Gilbert. "Ah, Mr. Margrave," she
added, perceiving the young artist, "it is here, then, that you have
been hiding yourself while a hundred lion-hunters have been trying to
chase you. Cora, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Gilbert Margrave,
engineer, artist, poet--lion! Mr. Margrave, allow me to present to you
Miss Cora Leslie, my friend, and the most elegant waltzer in my aunt's
crowded assembly."
"I beg, Mr. Margrave," said Cora Leslie, "that you will not listen to
Miss Horton's assertions; she only grants me this eulogy because she
knows that she waltzes better than I."
"Will you permit me to be the judge of that, Miss Leslie?" said
Gilbert, "and, in order that I may be so, grant me your hand for the
next waltz?"
"Oh, yes, yes," cried Adelaide, laughing, "we'll waltz with you. I
promise for Cora. Now, pray go back into the ball-room, Mr. Margrave,
and satisfy those good people who are pining to stare you out of
countenance, which is the only English tribute to genius. Go, now, you
shall summon Cora as soon as the first notes of the waltz strike up."
"Au revoir, Miss Leslie, till I come to claim your hand."
Gilbert bowed and left the ante-room, not without one enthusiastic
glance at the innocent face of the fair Louisianian.
"There goes another of your admirers, Cora," cried Adelaide, as she
flung herself into one of the luxurious easy-chairs, while Cora
seated herself on a sofa, a few paces distant and laid her bouquet of
hot-house flowers on a tiny table at her side. "I declare, Miss Cora
Leslie, that I begin to think I did a very unwise thing in persuading
my dear, good-natured aunt to give this farewell reunion to our English
friends, for you had only to make your appearance in order to steal
every admirer I have. It is a general desertion to the camp of the
enemy. I should not wonder if Mortimer himself joined the renegades,
and left me to sing willow for my inconstant swain."
"But I thought from what you told me, Adelaide," replied Cora,
laughing, "that Mr. Percy was by no means a very enthusiastic or
romantic person."
"Oh, no indeed," said Adelaide, with an impatient sigh; "you are
right there, my dear Cora; never was there such a cold-hearted,
matter-of-fact being as that cousin and future husband of mine. If he
pays me a compliment, it is only an artful way of drawing attention
to one of my defects, which, I will own, are rather numerous. If he
ever utters an affectionate word, I always feel convinced that he is
laughing at me. Imagine, now, my dear Cora, was it not flattering to my
womanly vanity to hear him say, when he arrived in London a month or
two ago, after a separation of four years, 'My dear Adelaide, my aunt
has taken it into her head that you and I ought to marry; I don't want
to oppose her, and I suppose you don't, either.'"
"And you replied--"
"'Oh, no, my dear cousin; I've no objection to marry you. But pray
don't ask anything else.'"
"But why did you give your consent?" asked Cora.
"I scarcely know. I am impetuous, rash, passionate, capable of doing
even a wicked action when under the influence of some sudden impulse.
I am daring enough, Heaven knows, but there is one species of courage
that I lack--the courage which gives the power of resistance. I could
not oppose my aunt. Has she not been the tenderest of mothers to me?
Besides, I did not love any one else, or at least--Why abandon myself
to dreams that can never be realized? Again, as the wife of my cousin
Mortimer, I shall never be an exile from my dear native South. If you
see me gay and happy, Cora, in spite of my approaching marriage, it is
that I shall soon behold the blue skies of my beloved Louisiana."
"Forgive me, dearest Adelaide," said Cora Leslie, "but from a few words
that escaped you just now, I fancy that I have a secret of your heart.
Has Mr. Margrave, by any chance, made an impression in that quarter?"
"You are very inquisitive, miss," replied Adelaide, blushing; "Mr.
Margrave is an accomplished young man, but his manner to me has never
gone beyond the bounds of the most ceremonious politeness. Perhaps,
indeed, had he betrayed any warmer sentiment toward me, I might--But
do not, I implore you, force me to reflect, my dear Cora. Is it not
decided that I am to marry Mortimer? I will present him to you this
evening if he makes his appearance, and you shall tell me what you
think of him."
"I am most impatient to see him," said Cora. "Tell me, dear Adelaide,
did you ask him for tidings of my father?"
"Do not think me forgetful, dear Cora, but I had so much to say to
him about my brother and my native country that I forgot to make the
inquiries you charged me with. There, now, you are angry with me, I
know, I can see it in your eyes."
"No, Adelaide, no!" answered Cora, "that which you see in my eyes is
not anger, but anxiety. It is nearly three months since I have received
any letter from my dear father, and this long silence is so unlike his
affectionate consideration that it has filled me with alarm."
"Nay, my dear Cora, the cares of business no doubt have prevented his
writing; or perhaps he is coming over to England, and wishes to give
you a delightful surprise. Did you not tell me that Mr. Leslie meant to
sell his plantation, and take up his abode in England? But here comes
Mortimer, and you can yourself make all the inquiries you wish."