CORA NEILL,

OR LOVE’S OBSTACLES.

———

BY ENNA DUVAL.

———

“Bravo! bravo!” exclaimed the delighted Mons. Lunoyer.

“Beautiful! exquisitely graceful!” repeated the young ladies that filled the dancing room, as Therese Wilson, a fine looking girl of fourteen or fifteen, went through a fashionable dance with Harry Belton, a handsome youth near the same age. It was the “practicing afternoon” of the young ladies belonging to Madame Chalon’s fashionable boarding-school—and a pretty sight was Mons. Lunoyer’s rooms on those afternoons. Stylish-looking girls of all ages, from the dainty little miss, just lisping her French phrases, up to the dashing school-belle, just on the eve of making her entrée into “society,” panting for the heart-conquests her imagination pictured forth in her future. And right lucky were those youths, who, having sisters, or sweet pets of cousins at the school, were permitted by Madame Chalon to take part in these practicings—a privilege which caused many an envious thought to their less favored school-fellows.

At the close of the dance the beautiful Therese approached her young companions, with cheeks glowing, and young heart beating high with gratified pride. What more could her girlish ambition desire? Harry Belton, the favorite beau of the school, stood by her, fanning her, and saying a thousand pretty things, while the young ladies, her class-mates, looked on. The dance had been performed with grace and beauty; and every one in the room expressed aloud their admiration.

“See, Therese,” said a little girl, anxious to attract the attention of the envied school-belle, “see what wonders your lovely dancing has performed; the little cry-baby creole, Cora Neill, has quite forgotten her tears; and her nurse, Rita, will tell you she has done nothing but weep since she left her father’s plantation up to this moment.”

Therese shook back her curls carelessly, without deigning to notice the compliment intended to be conveyed; but Harry Belton instantly turned his eyes toward the poor little Cora. The child was, indeed, lost in admiration. She leaned her tiny form against her black nurse, while her large, dark eyes, swollen with incessant weeping, flashed brightly, as they met the boy’s inquiring gaze. She seized his hand with childish earnestness, and exclaimed in Spanish, “Ah venga danza vmd. conmigo?” “Ah, come, dance with me,” and raising herself, her little feet went quickly over the first movements of the dance. The young girls surrounding Therese, seeing her smile contemptuously, laughed aloud at what they called the child’s presumption. Poor Cora stopped suddenly as she heard their laughter, then, with a burst of passionate tears, she hid her little head on her nurse’s shoulder. The indignant nurse poured out in a breath, soothings to her darling, and invectives upon the young ladies.

“Poor child!” said Harry. “You must not be so angry. Pray, stop weeping—do you not know you are to be my little dancing partner? Come, Cora, show these doubting young ladies how well you can dance.”

Although the child could hardly understand his imperfect Spanish, still she gathered sufficient from his tone of voice to know that he intended kindness. Gradually he succeeded in persuading her to leave nurse Rita’s shoulder, and obtaining permission from the dancing-master, he gave orders to the musicians to repeat the dance. At the introduction of the air, little Cora’s eyes flashed, and she seemed to forget all cause of discontent and sorrow. The dance proceeded, and those who had looked on at first from mere curiosity, found themselves applauding quite as much as they had a little while before the graceful execution of Therese. The floating, airy figure of the child, gave her a sylph-like appearance; and as she entered into the spirit of the dance, her dark cheeks glowed, and full lips seemed still redder; and then her bright eyes beamed forth such a childish lovingness in the concluding waltz movement, that quite bewitched them all. Mons. Lunoyer complimented her, and the young ladies pronounced her a “little love.”

“And who taught you to dance so prettily, Cora?” asked Harry.

The large eyes of the child again filled with tears, for the question carried her childish memory back to her island home, and the happy days when her mother, now no longer living, had taken delight in teaching her graceful child the dances she herself excelled in. Her sobbings commenced anew, and with agonizing exclamations she begged her dear Rita to take her to her own guerida madre. Harry assisted the nurse in soothing the unhappy little creature, while the rest of the school joined in the concluding dance. After it was finished, the attendant governess gave the signal for departure. The little weeping Cora clung to her nurse as her only friend.

“Adios mi queridita Cora,” said Harry, as he stooped down his tall, graceful, though boyish form, and looked affectionately into her dark eyes. She brightened as she saw his kind, brotherly look, and with bewitching naïveté held up her pretty, cherry lips to kiss him. The boy blushingly caressed her, and drove away his confusion by teaching her to call him in English her “dear brother Harry,” telling her she should be his own querida hermana. His kind words comforted her, and with the happy forgetfulness of childhood, she laughed aloud merrily, as she repeated after him, “dear brother Harry;” then, after caressing adieus to her adopted brother, she accompanied Rita and the governess to her new home, happier than she had been since her mother’s death.

Cora Neill was the daughter of an Irish gentleman who had resided at Havana for many years. There he had married a young and lovely girl belonging to one of the resident Spanish families. Many beautiful children had his gentle wife borne him, but one after another had bowed their little heads like drooping blossoms, and had been laid in the grave. At last the little Cora alone remained to them—the idol of both mother and father. Scarcely had she passed the age of infancy, when her beautiful mother’s cheeks glowed with a hectic flush, and her eyes burned with unnatural lustre. Poor Cora was but eight years of age when her mother was laid down to rest beside her other children. A year or two passed, and the bereaved father endeavored to soothe his grief in the caresses of his daughter. At last, when he reflected how unable he was to give her those advantages of education she needed, he resolved, though with a severe struggle, to part with her for a few years, and accordingly sent her to Madame Chalon’s establishment in one of the large Atlantic cities of the United States. She had only arrived a few days previous to the dancing lesson, and her poor little aching heart had throbbed with intense agony when she found herself surrounded by strangers. True, she had her black nurse, Rita, with her, and in the old woman’s nursery soothings she sometimes forgot her troubles; but there were moments when even the good old nurse failed to quiet her, and the poor little Cora refused to be comforted. But from the day when Harry plighted to her his brotherly faith, the school-home seemed more bearable. All in the establishment became interested in the little West Indian, and she seemed in a fair way to be spoiled; even the vain Therese was seen to caress her. The dancing reunions, as they came around weekly, were bright suns in her existence; for then she met again with Harry, and again renewed their brother and sister troth. Two or three years floated sunnily by, when her first unhappiness was caused by Harry’s receiving a summons from his Southern home. They parted at Mons. Dunoyer’s rooms on one of the practicing reunions, where they had first met. All the girls, and even the assistant governesses sympathized with little Cora; and she was permitted to converse apart with him at this sad time.

“Do not forget me, Cora,” said the boy, as he affectionately wound his arm around the tearful girl. “When I grow to be a man, I will visit your beautiful island, and you shall introduce your brother Harry to his sister Cora’s father.”

With renewed protestations of constancy the children parted.

Madame Chalon’s fine house was brilliantly lighted; carriages were rolling to and from the door; the sound of gay music could be heard by the passers-by; and from the large balconied windows of the drawing-rooms might be seen, group after group of gayly dressed women, and distingué looking men in the promenade. The elegant and courteous lady of the mansion was receiving her dear five hundred friends at one of her annual balls, given to introduce the young ladies who had finished the course of studies at her school into general society. Delighted and satisfied, she moved quietly and smilingly through her rooms, receiving her friends, and superintending her young élèves. Every thing was as it should be—the most fastidious could not fail to be satisfied, either as they looked at the tasteful decorations of the rooms, the entertainment, the music, or the guests; therefore, knowing all this, Madame Chalon’s heart was at rest. Of her young ladies who were at this season making their entrée into the fashionable world under her auspices, Cora Neill created the greatest sensation; and even in such an assemblage of beauty as was here on this night, she was universally admitted to be the belle of the room. Years had rolled by since she had first entered the school—years, which had changed her into a beautiful, accomplished woman. Her docility of disposition, her winning manners, and quickness of intellect, had endeared her to the governesses and pupils; and her approaching departure from the school, which was to take place in a few months, at the close of the season, was looked forward to by them with great regret.

Cora had just finished a dance, when Madame Chalon came up to her, leaning on the arm of a gentleman.

“Allow me, my dear,” she said, “to recall to your memory a friend of your little girlhood. He was too timid to trust to your recollection. I need not call him Mr. Belton—you already remember him, I am sure, although the years that have passed since you met, have changed you both.”

The rich color mounted to Cora’s cheeks, and her dark eyes flashed with pleasure as, with a frank expression of joyful greeting, she extended her hand to her old playmate. They had not met since Harry had been summoned home, years before, to attend the death-bed of his mother. Shortly after that sad event he had entered the navy, and had passed from boyhood to manhood. He often thought of the little West Indian, Cora Neill. Her sweet winning ways would come before him in his lonely night-watches, and her graceful, floating form would be recalled to his memory, when in southern climes he would bear through the voluptuous waltz some brilliant maiden. But only as little Cora had he thought of her; and when he saw her at Madame Chalon’s ball, so dazzlingly beautiful, instead of renewing instantly, as was his intention, their old friendship, he hesitated, and at last called on the Madame to present him; but Cora’s frank manner threw aside all reserve, and they were in a little while waltzing and talking, as they had years before at Mons. Dunoyer’s reunions. The following day found him a visiter at the Madame’s; and as his sisters had been favorite pupils of hers, he was greeted with a pleasant welcome.

It was Cora’s first winter in society, and under Madame Chalon’s chaperonage she frequented all the gay resorts of the fashionable world. Beautiful, and a reputed heiress, of course, she was a belle; but prominent amongst her admirers was the young lieutenant. It was not long before they made the mutual discovery of their love for each other—and they both yielded themselves without reflection to this first love. They dreamed only of happiness, and fondly imagined no clouds could hang over their future. Madame Chalon was finally consulted by both, and she enclosed in a letter of her own, Harry Belton’s application for Cora’s hand to Mr. Neill. The hours floated joyously by, and Cora thought life increased in beauty daily, when all her rosy dreams were dispelled, and she rendered miserable by the receipt of three letters from her father. One contained a brief, polite dismissal to Mr. Belton. The second was a civil acknowledgment to Madame Chalon for her kind care of his daughter for so many years, and a request that she should prepare Cora to accompany some West India friends, then traveling in the United States, who, in the following month, were to return to Cuba, and would take charge of her. The third was a letter to Cora—not a severe, upbraiding one, but one filled with sorrowful lovingness and fatherly entreaties. He pictured his solitary life since her mother’s death; how earnestly he had devoted himself to business, that he might accumulate enough to lavish freely on her, his only one, every luxury, when she should be old enough to take her mother’s place. He described the day-dreams he had indulged of an old age that was to be cheered by his only child.

“I know, my own idolized girl,” he wrote, at the conclusion of his letter, “that I am submitting myself to the imputation of selfishness; but when you reflect upon my past desolate life, and my future, you will pardon, I am sure, this selfishness. I am an old man, Cora; I need kindness, nursing, and love—I pine for a daughter’s care. Many years, have elapsed since your blessed mother’s death; and I might have, with propriety, married again, in order to guard against a lonely old age. Regard for her memory, and for your future prospects, Cora, have deterred me from taking this step. I have submitted willingly to the penance of a solitary life, when I reflected it was for the mental benefit of my daughter, comforting my weary hours by looking forward to the period when we should be again united. Your letters, heretofore, have been filled with affection for me, and a similar desire for this reunion. Come to me, my Cora—come to your old solitary father, who needs your society. Let not a stranger usurp my place in the heart of my only, my idolized child.”

Cora shed bitter tears on reading this letter, but her heart was filled with sad reproaches. Her memory reverted to the days of her childhood, when her mother and father watched over her with fondness. She recalled the agonizing moments that followed her mother’s death, when no one was permitted to approach her father but herself. She remembered the intense look of devotion with which he used always to regard her; and then she thought of the solitary, unhappy years that he must have passed while she, with the unthinking spirit of youth, had been seeking happiness for herself, independent of the kind, old, forsaken father, who had no one on earth to love but her. In vain were Harry’s entreaties, or Madame Chalon’s proffers of assistance and interference. She resolved, though with a sad, aching heart, to renounce all expectation of ever marrying Harry, and made preparations for her departure.

“Give me some period to look forward to, Cora,” was her lover’s last entreaty.

“I cannot, Harry,” she replied, “henceforth I belong only to my father; I never shall marry so long as he lives.”

“And will you forget me?” exclaimed her lover, passionately.

Tears of reproach started to Cora’s eyes as he asked this angry question, but she refrained from assurances to the contrary. “Forget me, dear Harry,” she said, so soon as she had mastered her emotion. “It will be better for us both; my duty lies in a different path from yours; my heart should go hand in hand with duty.”

Prudent and cold were her words, and the lover would have felt wounded, had he not seen her swollen eyes, cheeks flushed with weeping, and whole frame agitated with emotion. They parted, and in a few weeks she had bidden adieu to her kind teacher and friends, and was on the broad ocean, each day lessening the distance between her and her island home. As the hour of meeting with her father approached, her heart sunk within her, and she could scarcely restrain her emotion; but the sight of his sad face beaming with fatherly gratification, and the broken words of welcome with which he greeted her, completely over-powered her, and she threw herself upon his bosom with a burst of self-reproaching tears. He soothed her, and with loving words expressed his gratitude to her for having thought of his happiness in preference to her own.

“If you value my peace of mind, dearest father,” she exclaimed, “you must never allude to the past—in the future you will find me, I trust, all you can wish. I have no other desire than that of making you happy.”

Cora’s home was a luxurious though a solitary one. Her father had purchased a fine plantation, where, surrounded by slaves, she scarcely ever met with any society. With the families of some neighboring planters she occasionally mingled, but from preference both her father and herself preferred seclusion. The most rare and costly specimens of art surrounded her. Her father had spared no expense in preparing the house for her reception. He had employed a trusty friend in Europe to purchase every luxury, and she found her drawing-rooms, music-room, conservatory, boudoir, and bed-room fitted up in the most exquisite and elegant style.

“You are a person of perfect taste, dear papa,” she said. “Every thing I see around me gives evidence of the most refined and cultivated mind.”

Her father looked his pleasure as she expressed her admiration of the house and its appointments, and said,

“You must not, Cora, give me the credit entirely. I was assisted in every thing by my friend Martinez. He helped me plan my house. Insisted that it should be placed on this delightful slope, that the windows of your suite of rooms might command the fine view you so much admire, and then, as he was about leaving for Europe, I commissioned him to procure there every thing that could possibly add a charm to the residence of my only, long expected daughter. Five years, dear Cora, have we been planning and perfecting this home for you. Martinez spent three years abroad in collecting all these paintings, statuary, and other elegancies. According to his directions are these beautiful books constantly forwarded; those instruments were chosen by him while in Paris; a fine musician himself, he selected your musical library, and has given orders to have the best of the new compositions constantly sent to you.”

“What! M. Martinez your partner?” inquired Cora. “Dear old man, how well I remember him—but I thought I heard of his death many years ago?”

“This M. Martinez is his nephew,” replied her father; “he succeeded his uncle in business, and has been my partner for some ten or fifteen years. He is a very superior man—”

“Where is he now?” asked Cora.

“He is in Italy,” replied her father. “He has never been a very active business man. Inheriting his uncle’s fortune, he concluded to leave the capital in our concern, and his name in the firm, though not by any means performing his uncle’s duties. His pursuits are wholly different—he is a fine scholar, and resides almost entirely in Europe. He returned last summer to see the completion of my house, and the arrangement of the furniture, but I could not persuade him to remain longer than a few months with me.”

“And his family, where are they?” inquired Cora.

“He lost his wife,” replied Mr. Neill, “many years since. A few months after their marriage she died. He was devotedly attached to her, and I think he never has recovered entirely from the shock; and on that account a residence in Cuba is disagreeable to him—it recalls his suddenly wrecked hopes.”

Cora had not been many months with her father when she discovered that the close attention he had paid to his business, since the elder Martinez’ death, had impaired his health. She had, on her first arrival at home, contented herself with performing what few duties fell to her, and the hours her father spent with her, she exerted herself, though sometimes with labor, to amuse him; but those hours of the day that were left unoccupied, she was too prone to give herself up to the luxury of sad reminiscences, and as she looked around her luxurious home she would weepingly sigh for that one being, who, next to her father, held the first place in her heart. Her health would have been undoubtedly affected by this romantic indulgence, had she not had her fears aroused for her father’s safety, and terrified at the shadow of real sorrow she reproached herself for her weakness.

She entreated him to yield up some of his duties; part of the business might be given up. “You are not well,” she urged, “leave business entirely; what you have already made will suffice for us—though, owing to your kindness, I have indulged myself in imaginary wants, I will most willingly content myself with fewer luxuries.”

Her father opposed her entreaties. Martinez, the only partner, was abroad—no agent could attend to his affairs—business had never been so prosperous as now—he was well enough. In a few years he would wind up, and then they would go to Europe for a year or two to restore his strength. A few months afterward however found him stretched on a bed of sickness, and so alarming was it, that M. Martinez had to be summoned to what the weeping Cora feared would be her father’s death-bed. But careful, devoted attention on her part, and skillful physicians, warded off the immediate danger, and when M. Martinez arrived, Mr. Neill was convalescent, though his health remained in a very delicate state.

He then consented to yield to Cora’s entreaties, and in a little while all his affairs were arranged by M. Martinez, and he had retired from business. There was no need for any sacrifice, even of a single luxury. Mr. Neill found himself possessed of ample means—placed in good investments it yielded more than sufficient for their expenditures.

Cora was surprised at M. Martinez’ appearance. She had pictured to herself a middle-aged Spaniard, recalling the recollections she had of his uncle, which were any thing but complimentary to the nephew; for though the elder Martinez was a good old man, he was a very homely one; being short, thick-set, and his complexion was cloudy and dark. The younger Martinez, on the contrary, was a tall, handsome man, and although forty or forty-five years of age, looked full ten years younger, and was exceedingly polished and agreeable in his manners. He was their constant guest, and she found the hours passing much more agreeably since his arrival than before. His conversation was interesting—he had seen much of the world, and had improved by intercourse with society. He possessed many accomplishments and soon interested himself in Cora’s pursuits.

She was charmed with his superior attainments, and found herself at last relying on him, and looking up to him as to a much-loved elder brother. She never for an instant thought of loving him. Though hopelessly separated from Harry Belton, she cherished the memory of their attachment with almost sacred earnestness. She frequently heard from Madame Chalon, but the good Madame never mentioned his name, and she was quite ignorant of any thing relating to him. She had ceased repining for their separation since her father’s dangerous illness, but her thoughts dwelt upon him as a loved one buried.

Three or four years passed quietly but happily away. M. Martinez almost resided with them. He talked with Mr. Neill, and read, sketched, rode or practiced music with Cora. Her intercourse with M. Martinez gave a new impulse to her mind, and instead of giving herself up to the “luxury of grief,” and indulging in idle reveries of the past, as she had formerly, she studied and strengthened her intellectual nature. Her father’s health still remained delicate, which was the only drawback on her placid happiness. It was necessary to observe great precaution with him, for the slightest exposure or excitement brought on symptoms of his first attack. The constant watchful care which M. Martinez and Cora observed over him, might have prolonged his life many years, had not pecuniary misfortunes overtaken him. The principal part of his fortune had been invested in stocks that proved to be worthless, and left him penniless. The news of their insolvency reached Mr. Neill by letters, before M. Martinez had heard of it, and the anguish he felt at finding himself in his old age deprived of the fruits of long laborious years, produced a fresh hemorrhage from the lungs, more alarming than the first, and nearly caused his immediate death. He rallied, however, and appeared better; still the physicians could give no hope for his recovery; he might linger, they said, but only for a little while. After the immediate danger was over, M. Martinez departed for Havana, to make inquiries into Mr. Neill’s affairs. A few days after his departure, Cora received from him a letter, which filled her with amazement. It contained an offer of marriage from M. Martinez.

“Of your first attachment, Cora, I am aware,” he wrote. “I knew of it at the time, and felt for you deeply and honored you for your heroic self-sacrifice. I have always considered myself as wedded to the memory of my wife, but I have felt for you since I have known you, a regard that approaches very near to the love I felt for my lost Inez. I am alone in life. I have no one to care for but you and your father. Be my wife—one half, yes, I may say all your father’s sorrow will be alleviated by this step on your part. He knows not of this application, nor shall he if you reply in the negative. If I am repulsive to you, or if you look forward to a marriage with Lieut. Belton, I will not urge you—but if, as I hope, you are disengaged, and have long since given up all expectation of marriage with your first choice, and I am not personally disagreeable to you, I entreat of you to give me a favorable hearing. Be my wife, Cora—beloved Cora—I may say, for however you decide, you are very dear to me; and if constant, devoted attention on my part can secure your happiness, or can even make life placidly agreeable to you, I shall feel content. I do not hesitate to say, Cora, though cherishing the memory of my Inez with tenderness, if you reject my suit my life will become as wearisome and devoid of sunshine as it was before I knew you—lonely and dreary will be my future.

“I only waited, before your father’s troubles brought me to this crisis, for the least evidence of interest on your part toward me, to make the offer which I do now. In a few days I shall return—from your first glance, dearest Cora, I shall know your decision. I pray you, let it be favorable.”

She was aroused from the perplexing reverie this letter had plunged her into, by an evident change in her father. He was weaker, and apparently sinking rapidly—and when M. Martinez returned, he met Cora over her father’s death-bed. Mr. Neill expressed his anguish in heart rending lamentations at leaving his daughter, and besought M. Martinez to watch over her as a brother.

Martinez took the hand of the sobbing girl and murmured—

“Beloved Cora, cheer your father’s last moments by yielding to my wishes; let me tell him that as a husband I will guard you.”

She permitted him to raise her head and rest it on his shoulder, and the good father’s last moments were soothed by witnessing the marriage of his daughter with the man he most highly valued as a friend. It was a sad bridal, but Cora felt that two at least were happy; self-sacrifice she had brought her mind years before to endure; and she prayed that Heaven might make the present sacrifice work out her own content. Mr. Neill died, and Cora found herself a fatherless bride. Untiring was her husband’s devotion, and most soothing and consoling were his attentions. Soon after her father’s death he persuaded her to leave their beautiful home for a while, and they accordingly traveled for some time in Europe. The change of scene enlivened her, and she was becoming satisfied with the step she had taken, when, at Naples, one season she met with Harry, now Captain Belton. He was still unmarried, for, like her, he had retained a feeling of romance for his first love. They met with a few flutterings on both sides, which, however, soon disappeared. Each found the other different from the ideal image cherished in their memories. Harry was a noble-hearted, frank fellow, but sadly wanting in the intellectual elevation that characterized M. Martinez, and Cora, though still beautiful, he thought her not half so conversible or interesting as his little black-eyed cousin, Sophie Wilson, with whom he had flirted at Washington on her entrée into society, the previous winter, and with whom he corresponded most platonically and brother-like. Had Cora and Harry married early in life, she would have adapted herself partly to his tastes, and he to hers—they would have met half way. She would have elevated him intellectually, and they would probably have been happy; but their pursuits had been different. His had been a careless, indolent life, independent of the mere performance of the duties of his profession—hers an intellectual one. She had become entirely elevated above him; her mental powers had developed while his laid dormant, and she felt as she turned and looked upon the intellectual beauty of M. Martinez, and contrasted it with the tolerably good-looking, though broad and rather inexpressive face of her early love, that the prayer she had made so fervently over her father’s death-bed, had been granted. Her marriage had brought to her true happiness.

Harry Belton returned home with his romantic dreams dispelled, and the next season the American papers gave notice of the marriage of “Captain Belton, U. S. N., to Sophie, only daughter of Gen. Wilson.”

Cora pointed out the notice to her husband with a smile on her now full red lip, and with a deeper flush on her cheek than it usually wore, she said—

“How fortunate it was, dearest, that Harry and I met at Naples last summer—otherwise we might both have gone through life, fancying ourselves miserably unhappy about the romance of a first love.”