“Fatiguesof the evening!—Agoniesrather,” thought Julia; but thanking him for his “kind” advice, she immediately retreated to her chamber.
Until this evening, Mr. Westbury had scarcely seen Miss Eldon since his marriage. He had avoided seeing her, being conscious that she retained her full power over his heart; and his sense of rectitude forbade his indulging a passion for one woman, while the husband of another. Miss Eldon suspected this, and felt piqued at his power over himself. Her heart fluttered with satisfaction when she saw him enter Mrs. Brooks's drawing-room; and she resolved to ascertain whether her influence over his affections were diminished. She was mortified and chagrined, that even here he kept aloof from her, giving her only a passing bow, as he walked to another part of the room. It was with unusual pleasure that she complied with a request to sit to the piano, for she well knew the power of music—of her own musicover his heart. Never before had she touched the keys with so much interest. She did her best—that best was pre-eminently good—and she soon found that she had fixed the attention of him whom alone she cared to please. After singing one or two modern songs, she began one that she had learned at Mr. Westbury's request, at the period when he used to visit her almost daily. It was Burns's “Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,” and was with him a great favorite. When Miss Eldon came to the lines—
she raised her eyes to his face, and in an instant he forgot every thing but herself. “Her happiness is sacrificed as well as my own,” thought he; and leaning his head against the wall of the room, he gave himself up, for the time, to love and melancholy. The song concluded, however, he regained some control over his feelings, and still kept at a distance from her; nay—conquered himself, so far as to repair to the drawing-room, to escape from her dangerous vicinity. He saw her not again until she was equipped for her departure. Then she contrived to get near him, and threw so much sweetness and melancholy into her voice, as she said “good night, Mr. Westbury,” that he was instantly disarmed—and drawing her arm within his, conducted her from the room.
“How,” said he, in a low and tremulous tone, “how, Maria, could you singthat song, to harrow up my feelings? Time was, when to be near thee—to listen to thee, was my felicity; but now, duty forbids that I indulge in the dangerous delight.”
Miss Eldon replied not—but raised her eyes to his face, while she repressed a half-drawn sigh. Not another word was uttered until they exchanged “adieus” at her carriage door.
Two or three weeks passed away without the occurrence of any incident calculated to excite peculiar uneasiness in the heart of Julia. True, her husband was still the cold, the ceremonious, and occasionally the abrupt Mr. Westbury; he passed but little even of his leisure time at home; and she had never met his eye when it expressed pleasure, or even approbation. But he did not grow more cold—more ceremonious; the time he passed at his own fireside, rather increased than diminished—and for all this she was thankful. Her efforts to please were unceasing. Her house was kept in perfect order, and every thing was done in time, and well done. Good taste and good judgment were displayed in every arrangement. Her table was always spread with great care, and if her husband partook of any dish with peculiar relish, she was careful to have it repeated, but at such intervals as to gratify rather than cloy the appetite. In her dress she was peculiarly neat and simple, carefully avoiding every article of apparel that was tinctured with the “odious color.” She had naturally a fine mind, which had had the advantage of high cultivation; and without being obtrusive, or aiming at display, she strove to be entertaining and companionable. Above all, she constantly endeavored to maintain a placid, if not a cheerful brow, knowing that nothing is so repulsive as a discontented, frowning face. She felt that nothing was unimportant that might either please or displease her husband; his heart was the prize she was endeavoring to win; and the happiness of her life depended on the sentiments he should ultimately entertain toward her. Every thing she did was done not only properly, but gracefully; and though she never wearied in her efforts, she would oftentimes sigh that they were so unsuccessful. She sometimes feared that her very anxiety to please, blinded her as to the best manner of doing so; and would often repeat with a sigh, after some new, and apparently useless effort—
“Je le servirais mieux, si je l'eusse aimé moins.”
“Je le servirais mieux, si je l'eusse aimé moins.”
The first thing to disturb the kind of quiet that Julia enjoyed, was the prospect of another party. One morning, while at the breakfast table, a card was brought in from Mr. and Mrs. Parker, who were to be “at home” on Friday evening. After looking at the card, Julia handed it to Mr. Westbury in silence.
“It will be proper that we accept the invitation,” said Mr. Westbury.
The remembrance of the agony she endured at the last party she attended, caused Julia's voice to tremble a little, as she said—
“Just as you think best—but for my own part, I should seldom attend a party for the sake of enjoyment.”
“If Mrs. Westbury thinks it proper to immure herself as if in a convent, she can,” said Mr. Westbury; “for myself, I feel that society has claims upon me that I wish to discharge.”
“I will go if you think there would be any impropriety in my staying away,” said Julia.
“Situated as you are, I think there would,” said Mr. Westbury.
“Situated as I am!” thought Julia; “what does he mean? Does he refer to my station in society? or does he fear that the world will think me an unhappy wife, that wishes to seclude herself from observation?”
In the course of the morning, Julia called on Mrs. Cunningham, and found that lady and her husband discussing the point, whether or not they should attend Mrs. Parker's party.
“Are you going, Mrs. Westbury?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.
“Yes—Mr. Westbury thinks we had better do so,” Julia replied.
“Hear that, Edward!” said Mrs. Cunningham. “You perceive that Mr. Westbury likes that his wife should enjoy the pleasures of society.”
Mr. Cunningham looked a little hurt, as he said—“my dear Lucy, am I notmore than willingto indulge you in every thing that will add to your happiness? I have only been trying to convince you how much more comfortable we should be by our own fireside, than in such a crowd as must be encountered at Mrs. Parker's. For myself, the society of my wife is my highest enjoyment, and of her conversation I never grow weary.”
“Thank you for the compliment, dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham—“and we will settle the question at another time.”
One of the first persons Julia distinguished amid the company, as she entered Mrs. Parker's drawing-room, was Mrs. Cunningham, who gave her a nod, and an exulting smile, as much as to say—“you see I have carried the day!” Julia had endeavored to arm herself for this evening's trial, should Miss Eldon make one of the company; and accordingly she was not surprised, and not much moved, when she saw her husband conversing with that young lady. She was too delicate in feeling, too refined in manner, to watch them, even long enough to catch the expression of Mr. Westbury's face; but resolutely turning her eyes another way, she endeavored to enter into conversation with the persons near her.
Mr. Westbury had not been in Mrs. Parker's drawing-room half an hour, ere Miss Eldon contrived to place herself in such a situation as to render it impossible for him to avoid addressing her; and this point once gained, to escape from her was impracticable. A strong sense of honor alone led him to wish to escape, as to be near her was to him the most exquisite happiness; but the greater the delight, the more imminent the danger; of this he was sensible, and it was not without some resistance that he yielded to her fascination. Could she once secure his attention, Miss Eldon well knew how to get at his heart; and at those moments when she was sure that no ear heard, and no eye observed her but his own, she let an occasional touch of thepenserosamingle so naturally with her half subdued sprightliness, as to awaken, in all their original strength, those feelings, and those regrets, he was striving to subdue. For the time he forgot every thing but that they mutually loved, and were mutually unhappy. They had been standing together a considerable length of time when they were joined by Mr. Cunningham, who abruptly remarked—
“You don't enjoy yourself this evening, Westbury.”
“What makes you think so?” Mr. Westbury inquired.
“You look worn out, just as I feel,” answered Mr. Cunningham. “How strange it is,” he added, “that married men will ever suffer themselves to be drawn into such crowds!”
“Why not married men, as well as bachelors?” asked Miss Eldon.
“Because they relinquish real happiness and comfort, for a fatiguing pleasure—if pleasure it can be called,” answered Cunningham. “One's own hearth and one's own wife, is the place, and the society, for unalloyed enjoyment. Am I not right, Westbury?”
Miss Eldon turned her eyes on Mr. Westbury, as she waited to hear his answer, and an expression, compounded of curiosity, contempt, and satisfaction, met his eye. It was the first time he had ever remarked an unlovely, an unamiable expression on her countenance. He calmly replied to Mr. Cunningham—
“Unquestionably the pleasures of domestic life are the most pure, the most rational, that can be enjoyed.”
“O, it is strange,” said Mr. Cunningham, “that any one can willingly exchange them for crowded rooms, and pestilential vapors, such as we are now inhaling! There is nothing to be gained in such a company as this. Take any dozen, or half dozen of them by themselves, and you might stand some chance to be entertained and instructed; but bring them all together, and each one seems to think it adutyto give himself up to frivolity and nonsense. I doubt whether there have been a hundred sensible words uttered here to-night, except by yonder circle, of which Mrs. Westbury seems to be the centre. There seems to be something like rational conversationthere.”
Mr. Westbury turned his eyes, and saw that Julia was surrounded by theeliteof the party—who all seemed to be listening with pleased attention to a conversation that was evidently carried on between herself and Mr. Eveleth, a gentleman who was universally acknowledged as one of the first in rank and talent in the city. For a minute Mr. Westbury suffered his eyes to rest on Julia. Her cheek was suffused with the beautiful carmine tint of modesty, and her eyes were beaming with intellectual light—while over her features was spread a slight shade of care, as if the heart were not perfectly at ease. “She certainly looks very well,” was Mr. Westbury's thought; and his feeling was one of gratified pride, that she who was inevitably his wife, did not find her proper level amongst the light, the vain, and the frivolous.
“You have been delightfully attentive to your wife, this evening, my dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham to her husband, as soon as they were seated in their carriage on their way home.
“I am not sensible of having neglected you, Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham.
“No—I suppose not; nor of having been very attentive to another!”
“I certainly am not. To whom do you allude?”
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “that Mr. Westbury is equally unconscious of having had his attention engrossed by any particular individual.”
“You surely cannot mean that I was particularly attentive to Miss Eldon, Lucy?”
“O, how could I mean so?” said Mrs. Cunningham, with a kind of laugh that expressed any thing rather than pleasure, or good humor. “I really wonder how you came to recollect having seen such a person as Miss Eldon to-night!”
“Your remark concerning Westbury brought her to my mind,” said Mr. Cunningham.
“How strange!” said his wife, “And how extreme that young lady's mortification must have been, that she could not detain two newly married gentlemen near her for more than an hour and a half at one time! Seriously, Mr. Cunningham, the company must have thought that you and Westbury were striving which should do her most homage.”
“And seriously, my dear Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham, taking the hand of his wife, which she reluctantly permitted him to detain—“seriously, it was merelyaccidental that I spoke to Miss Eldon this evening. There is not a person on earth to whose society and conversation I am more completely indifferent—so, take no offence, love, where none was meant. There is no one whose conversation can compensate me for the loss of yours; and it is one reason why I so much dislike these crowds, that, for a time, they necessarily separate us from each other.”
The following morning, Mrs. Cunningham called on Mrs. Westbury, who, at the moment of her arrival happened to be in her chamber—but she instantly descended to receive her visitor. When Mrs. Westbury left the parlor a short time previous, her husband was there; but he had disappeared, and she supposed he had gone out. He was, however, in the library, which adjoined the parlor, and the door between the two rooms was not quite closed. After the compliments of the morning, Mrs. Westbury remarked—
“I was somewhat surprised to see you at Mrs. Parker's last evening.”
“Surprised! why so?”
“You recollect the conversation that took place on the subject, the morning I was at your house?”
“O, yes—I remember that Mr. Cunningham was giving a kind of dissertation on the superior pleasures of one's own chimney-corner. Really, I wish he did not love home quite so well—though I don't despair of teaching him, by and by, to love society.”
“Can it be possible that you really regret your husband's attachment to home?” asked Mrs. Westbury.
“Yes, certainly—when it interferes with my going out. A man and his wife may surely enjoy enough of each other's society, and yet see something of the world. At any rate, I shall teach Ned, that I am not to be made a recluse for any man!”
“Have you no fears, my dear Mrs. Cunningham,” said Mrs. Westbury, “that your want of conformity to your husband's taste, will lessen your influence over him?”
“And of what use is this influence,” asked Mrs. Cunningham, “unless it be exerted to obtain the enjoyments I love?”
“O, pray beware,” said Mrs. Westbury, with much feeling,—“beware lest you sacrifice your happiness for a chimera! Beware how you trifle with so invaluable a treasure as the heart of a husband!”
“Pho—pho—how serious you are growing,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Actually warning and exhorting at twenty years of age! What a preacher you will be, by the time you are forty! But now be honest, and confess that you, yourself, would prefer a ball or a party, to sitting alone here through a stupid evening with Westbury.”
“Then to speak truth,” said Julia, “I should prefer an evening at home to all the parties in the world—balls I never attend, and do not think stupidity necessary, even with no other companion than one's own husband.”
“Then why do you attend parties if you do not like them?”
“Because Mr. Westbury thinks it proper that I should.”
“And so you go to him, like miss to her papa and mamma to ask him what you must do?” said Mrs. Cunningham, laughing. “This is delightful, truly! But for my part, I cannot see why I have not as good a right to expect Edward to conform to my taste and wishes, as he has to expect me to conform to his. And so Westbury makes you go, whether you like to or not?”
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Westbury. “I never expressed to him my aversion to going, not wishing him to feel as if I were making a great sacrifice, in complying with his wishes.”
“Well, that is pretty, and dutiful, and delicate,” said Mrs. Cunningham, laughing again. “But I don't set up for apatternwife, and if Edward and I get along as well as people in general, I shall be satisfied. But to turn to something else. How do you like Miss Eldon?”
“I am not at all acquainted with her,” said Julia.
“You have met her several times,” said Mrs. Cunningham.
“Yes, but have never conversed with her. Her appearance is greatly in her favor; I think her very beautiful.”
“She is called so,” said Mrs. Cunningham; “but some how I don't like her looks. To tell the plain truth, I can't endure her, she is so vain, and artful, and self-complacent.”
“I have not the least acquaintance with her,” repeated Julia; “but it were a pity so lovely a face should not be accompanied by an amiable heart. Areyoumuch acquainted with her?”
“Not personally. Indeed I never conversed with her for ten minutes in my life.”
“Then you may be mistaken in thinking her vain and artful,” said Mrs. Westbury.
“O, I've seen enough to satisfy me fully as to that point,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “When a young lady exerts herself to engross the attention of newly married men, and when she looks so self-satisfied at success, I want nothing more. She can have no delicacy of feeling—she must be a coquette of the worst kind.”
It was now Mrs. Westbury's turn to change the subject of conversation, and simply remarking—“that we should be extremely careful how we judge of character hastily”—she asked some question that drove Miss Eldon from Mrs. Cunningham's mind. Soon after the visitor departed, and Julia returned to her chamber.
In the evening when Mr. Westbury came in, he found Julia reading, but she immediately laid down her book, and resumed her work. She thought it quite as impolite to pursue the solitary pleasure of reading while her husband was sitting by, as to have done so with any other companion; and she knew no reason why he was not as much entitled to civility as a stranger, or common acquaintance. It was not long before Mr. Westbury inquired “what book had engaged her attention.” It was Dr. Russel's Palestine.
“It is a delightful work,” said Julia. “I have just read an extract from Chateaubriand, that I think one of the most elegant passages I ever met with.”
“I should like to hear it,” said Mr. Westbury. Julia opened her book, and the passage lost none of its beauty by her reading. She read the following:—
“When you travel in Judea the heart is at first filled with profound melancholy. But when, passing from solitude to solitude, boundless space opens before you, this feeling wears off by degrees, and you experience asecret awe, which, so far from depressing the soul, imparts life, and elevates the genius. Extraordinary appearances everywhere proclaim a land teeming with miracles. The burning sun, the towering eagle, the barren fig-tree, all the poetry, all the pictures of Scripture are here. Every name commemorates a mystery, every grotto announces a prediction, every hill re-echoes the accents of a prophet. God himself has spoken in these regions, dried up rivers, rent the rocks, and opened the grave. The desert still appears mute with terror, and you would imagine that it had never presumed to interrupt the silence, since it heard the awful voice of the Eternal.”
Julia closed the volume, and Mr. Westbury, after bestowing just praise on the extract she had read, took up the work, and proposed to read to her if she would like it. She thanked him, and an hour was very pleasantly spent in this manner. A little time was occupied in remarking on what had been read, when, after a short silence, Mr. Westbury inquired of Julia, “whether she saw much of Mrs. Cunningham.”
“Not a great deal,” was Julia's answer.
“She was here this morning?” said Mr. Westbury. “She was,” replied Julia.
“Do you intend to be intimate with her?” inquired Mr. Westbury.
“I have no intention about it;” said Julia—“but presume I never shall, as I fear our views and tastes will prove very discordant.”
“I am happy to hear you say so,” said Mr. Westbury. “I am not prepossessed in her favor, and greatly doubt whether an intimacy with her would be salutary. Such a person as I conceive her to be, should be nothing more than an acquaintance.”
Nothing more was added on the subject, and Julia wondered, though she did not ask, what had given her husband so unfavorable an impression of Mrs. Cunningham's character. The truth was, he overheard the conversation of the morning, which he would have frankly confessed to his wife, but for a kind of delicacy to her feelings, as he had heard her remarks as well as those of Mrs. Cunningham. He knew that it was not quite honorable to listen to a conversation without the knowledge of the parties; but he could not close the library door without betraying his proximity; he wished not to see Mrs. Cunningham; he therefore remained quiet, and heard their whole colloquy.
A few days after this circumstance occurred, an invitation to another party was received. Mr. Westbury looked at the card first, and handing it to Julia, said:
“I would have you act your pleasure with regard to accepting this invitation.”
“It will be my pleasure,” said Julia, hesitating and coloring a little—“it will be my pleasure to consult yours.”
“I have little choice about it,” said Mr. Westbury, “and if you prefer declining to accepting it, I would have you do so.”
“Shall you attend it?” asked Julia, while a shade of anxiety passed over her features.
“Certainly not unless you do,” Mr. Westbury replied.
“Then,” said Julia, “if it be quite as agreeable to you, I had a thousand times rather spend it at home, alone with”—she checked herself, colored crimson, and left the sentence unfinished.
The morning after the levee, Mrs. Westbury was favored with another call from Mrs. Cunningham.
“Why, on earth were you not at Mrs. B——'s last night?” asked she almost as soon as she entered the house. “You can imagine nothing more splendid and delightful than every thing was.”
“You were there then?” said Julia.
“Yes, certainly—though I went quite late. Edward was sick of a violent head-ache, and I was obliged to see him safely in bed before I could go; but nothing would have tempted me to miss it.”
“How is Mr. Cunningham this morning?” Julia inquired.
“Much better—though rather languid, as is usual after such an attack. But I came in on an errand this morning, and must despatch business, as I am somewhat in haste. Mrs. T—— is to give a splendid party next week—by the way, have you received a card yet?”
“I have not,” said Julia.
“Neither have I—but we both shall. I want to prepare a dress for the occasion, and came in to look at the one you wore to Mrs. Parker's, as I think of having something like it.”
Mrs. Westbury was about to ring the bell, and have the dress brought for her visitor's inspection, but Mrs. Cunningham stopt her by saying,
“No, no—do not send for it. Let me go with you to your wardrobe, I may see something else that I like.”
Mrs. Westbury complied, and they went up stairs together. Mrs. Cunningham was delightfully free in examining the articles exposed to her view, and expressed such warm admiration of many of them, such an ardent desire to possess the like, that it was rather difficult to forbear telling her they were at her service. The blond mantle, with a blue border, struck her fancy particularly, and Mrs. Westbury begged her to accept it, saying “that she should probably never wear it again, as the color was not a favorite with her husband.”
Mrs. Cunningham hastened home, delighted with her acquisition, and immediately hastened to the chamber, to which her husband was still confined by indisposition, to display to him her prize.
“See what a beautiful little affair that dear Mrs. Westbury has given me,” she cried. “How lucky for me that Mr. Westbury don't like blue, else I should not have got it, I suppose, though, she could spare this, and fifty other things, as well as not. Why, Edward, you don't know what a delightful wardrobe she has! Really, you must indulge me a little more in this way, I believe.”
“I am sure no one looks better dressed than yourself, Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham, in a languid voice.
“O, I try to make the most of every thing I have,” said Mrs. Cunningham; “but really, Edward, Mrs. Westbury has twice as much of all sorts of apparel as I have.”
“And her husband has more than four times as much property as I have,” answered Mr. Cunningham.
“Supposing he has,” said his wife, “that need make no difference in the article of dress. And then her house is so charmingly furnished—every part of it! I was in her chamber, just now, and it looks elegantly. Every thing in it is of the richest and most beautiful kind, I declare I almost envied her so many luxuries.”
“We surely have every thing necessary to comfort, my dear Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham. “Our happiness does not depend on the splendor of our furniture, but on our affection for each other. You would be no dearer to my heart, in the paraphernalia of a duchess, diamonds and all, than you are in your simple morning dress; and I hope you do not love me the less, for not being able to furnish my house in the style of Mr. Westbury's.”
“O, no—of course not,” said Mrs. Cunningham, in a tone utterly devoid of all tenderness or feeling; “but then I should not love you the less for having beautiful things, I suppose. And, really, Edward, I think one of the best ways in which a husband can show his love to his wife, is by gratifying her in dress, furniture, company, and so-forth. Talking about love don't amount to much after all!”
“He must ruin himself, then, to show his love,” said Mr. Cunningham, throwing his head back on the easy-chair, with a mingled expression of mental and bodily pain on his features.
Mrs. Cunningham, however did not look up to mark the expression of his countenance, but half-muttered in reply to his remark—
“I never knew a man who was toostingyto dress his wife decently, fail to excuse himself on the ground of necessity. How I do detest to hear a man talk ofruin, if his wife only asks for a new pair of shoes!”
Mr. Cunningham was too deeply wounded to attempt a reply; and Mrs. Cunningham, having vented something of her discontent in this gentle ebullition, flirted out of the chamber, without even casting a glance toward her sick, and now afflicted husband.
In due time Mrs. T——'s invitation was received, and this it was Mr. Westbury's wish that Julia should accept. Without manifesting the least reluctance she consented, and Mr. Westbury went so far as to thank her for her cheerful compliance with his wishes. This was a very slight courtesy, but there was something in Mr. Westbury's voice when he spoke, that went straight to Julia's heart, and she left the room to conceal the strong emotion excited by so very trivial a cause. “She certainly strives to please me, be the motive what it may,” thought Mr. Westbury, when left alone—“and thoughI cannot love her, honor—nay, gratitude demands that I make her as happy as circumstances will allow.” He took a pen, and hastily writing a few lines, enclosed a bank note of considerable value, and left the little packet on her work-table, that she might see it as soon as she returned. He then left the house. When Julia resumed her seat by her table, the packet was the first thing that attracted her notice. She hastily opened it, and read as follows:—
“As Mrs. Westbury is too delicate and reserved ever to make known a want, she may have many which are unthought of by him who is bound to supply them. Will she receive the enclosed, not as a gift, but as her right? Perhaps a new dress may be wanted for Mrs. T——'s levee; if not, the enclosed can meet some of those calls on benevolence, to which report says Mrs. Westbury's ear is ever open. And if Mrs. Westbury will so far overcome her timid delicacy, as freely to make known her wants whenever they occur, she will greatly oblige her husband.”
Julia pondered long on this note. It was ceremonious and cold—cold enough!—yet not sofrozenas the only letter she had ever received from him. Perhaps it was his way of letting her know that he wished her to dress more elegantly and expensively. “I will not remain in doubt; I will know explicitly,” thought she—and taking a pen in her turn, she wrote the following:
“Mr. Westbury is so munificient in supplying every want, that his wife has none to make known. If there is any particular dress that would gratify Mr. Westbury's taste, Mrs. Westbury would esteem it a great favor would he name it, and it would be her delight to furnish herself accordingly. She accepts with gratitude,not as her right, but as a gift, the very liberal sum enclosed in Mr. Westbury's note.”
Julia placed her note on Mr. Westbury's reading-desk in the library, and felt an almost feverish impatience to have an answer, either verbal or written. For more than an entire day, however, she was doomed to remain in suspense, as her husband made no allusion either to his note or her own, though the one she laid on his desk disappeared on his first visit to the library. But her suspense at length terminated. On going to her chamber she observed a little box on her dressing-table. On raising it, she discovered a note that was placed beneath it. The note ran thus:—
“Mr. Westbury highly approves the elegant simplicity of Mrs. Westbury's style of dress, and in consulting her own taste, she will undoubtedly gratify his. He hasbut onceseen her wear an unbecoming article. The contents of the accompanying box were selected, not for their intrinsic value or splendor, but because they correspond so well with Mrs. Westbury's style of dress and of beauty. If she will wear them to Mrs. T——'s, she will gratify the giver.”
Julia opened the box, and a set of beautiful pearls met her view. “How delicate, how kind, and how cold he is!” thought she. “O, how trifling the value of these gems, compared to one particle of his love!—Yet for his sake I will wear them—not as my adorning—maythatever be the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, but as proof of my desire in all things to please him, and meet his approbation.”
Mrs. T——'s rooms were well filled with the elegant and fashionable, on the evening on which her house was opened to receive company. But the heart of Julia was not in such scenes. The more she saw of fashionable life the less she liked it. Emulation, envy, detraction, and dissimulation were obtruding themselves on her notice, amid gaiety and splendor. Her conscientious scruples as to the propriety of thus mixing with the world, increased rather than diminished. “I promised,” thought she, while she was surveying the gay assembly—“I promised, in all things lawful, to obey my husband—but is thislawfulfor me? It is my duty—it is mypleasureto comply with all his wishes, where superior duties do not forbid; but is it allowable for me to try to please himthus?His heart is the prize at which I aim, but will ‘the end sanctify the means?’ Can I expect a blessing from above on my efforts, while my conscience is notquiteclear as to the rectitude of the path I pursue? Can I not have moral courage enough to tell him my scruples? and dare I not hazard the consequences?” Julia's reflections were interrupted by the approach of Mrs. Cunningham.
“How serious you look, Mrs. Westbury,” said she. “Really, you and Mr. Cunningham would do well together, for you are both more grave in a party than any where else. Mr. Cunningham actually tries my patience by his disrelish for society. I do believe he is now quite well; yet he made indisposition an excuse for not coming with me to-night! But,” said she, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “I shall show him that I can beobstinateas well as he! He chooses to stay at home—I choose to come out—and if he will not come with me, neither will I stay with him. I should rather live in a cottage in the country, and have done with it, for there I should have nothing to expect but stupidity; but to live in the midst of elegant society, and yet be constrained to immure one's self, is intolerable, and Iwill notsubmit to it!”
Mrs. Westbury had not the pain of replying to a speech from which both her heart and her judgment revolted, as Mr. Eveleth at that moment addressed her. He soon engaged her in a conversation which was continued for an hour, and would have been continued still longer, but for a general movement of the company, which separated them. Not long after, Mr. Eveleth found himself near Miss Eldon, who was chatting with two or three gentlemen. Mr. Westbury was standing hard by, but his back was toward them, and Mr. Eveleth did not observe him.
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Westbury, Miss Eldon?” Mr. Eveleth inquired.
“No, not in the least,” said Miss Eldon, “and do not wish to be. She looks altogether toofadefor me.”
“Fade!” said Mr. Eveleth—“I should think that the last word that would apply to Mrs. Westbury in any way. She is certainly animated both in countenance and manner, and she talks better than any lady I ever conversed with. Her thoughts have something of masculine strength and range, delightfully modified by feminine grace and delicacy. Her manner is perfectly ladylike and gentle.”
“Every thing she says must sound well,” remarked another gentleman. “She has woman's most potent charm, in perfection—a voice whose tones are all music.”
“Perhaps it is all just as you say,” said Miss Eldon, “but really, I never saw a lady that appeared to me more perfectly insipid, or less attractive. I hope”—but the tone of Miss Eldon's voice contradicted her words—“I hope her husband sees her with your eyes, rather than mine.”
“I do—I will!” thought Mr. Westbury, who had heard all the conversation, with a variety of conflicting emotions. “Fade!” reiterated he, as Miss Eldon uttered the word,—“'Tis false!” He glanced his eyes towards Julia, who stood on the opposite side of the room, talking with a lady. She was dressed in black, a color that finely contrasted with her pearls, which proved to be very becoming. Her cheek was a little flushed, and her whole face beaming with animation. “Fade!'tis false!” Mr. Westbury's pride was piqued. Julia was Mrs. Westbury—his wife! could he patiently hear her thus unjustly spoken of? Was there any thing noble in that mind that could thus speak of a rival? How grateful to his feelings were the remarks of Mr. Eveleth! How clearly he read the feelings of Miss Eldon in the tone of voice in which she uttered her last remark! He waited to hear no more, but moving towards a table that was spread with refreshments, filled a plate, and carried it to Julia. It was the first attention of the kind he had ever paid her, and her face was eloquent indeed, as she looked up with a smile, and said “thank you.” He stood by her for a few minutes, made some common-place remarks, even took a grape or two from her plate, and then turned away. It was one of the happiest moments of Julia's life! There was something indescribable in his manner, that a delicate and feeling woman could alone have seen or appreciated, of which Julia felt the full force.
When the party broke up, Miss Eldon contrived again to secure Mr. Westbury's arm. She saw that he purposely avoided her, whether from new-born indifference, or principle, she could not determine; but having boasted to quite a number of herconfidential friendsof his passion for herself, and the reluctance with which he had complied with his father's command to marry Julia,who had made the most indelicate advances—she resolved, if art or manœuvering could accomplish it, to maintain the appearance of power over him. From the first she exulted in her conquest of Mr. Westbury's heart. She admired his person—his fortune sheloved;and bitter was her mortification, unbounded her displeasure, when his hand was bestowed on another. To make it appear that he still loved her; to wring the heart of his wife, and detract from her character, were now the main springs of her actions whenever she met them. The sight of Julia's pearls, which she thought should have been her own, awakened, on this evening, peculiarly bitter feelings. The hand—the heart even, of Mr. Westbury were trifles, when compared with such beautiful ornaments, except as they were the medium through which the latter were to be obtained.
A ten-minutes conversation with herci-devantlover was all her art could accomplish during the evening at Mrs. T——'s, until she secured his arm on going out. In the entry they were detained by the crowd at the door, and looking round, they saw Mrs. Westbury, together with Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth, examining a bust of Gen. Lafayette, which stood on a pedestal, near the foot of the staircase. With a smile on her beautiful features, which very slightly softened a compound expression of scorn and malignity, Miss Eldon said—
“Really, Mrs. Westbury has made a conquest! Mr. Eveleth is devoted in his attentions, and enthusiastic in his encomiums! Do you not begin to be jealous?”
“Not in the least,” Mr. Westbury replied. “The attentions and approbation of such a man as Mr. Eveleth are an honor to any lady; and Mrs. Westbury's rigid sense of virtue and propriety will prevent her ever receiving improper attentions, should any one be disposed to offer them. She has too much delicacy and refinement to court the attentions even of her own husband, much less those of the husband of another!”
Miss Eldon was stung with mortification, and dropping her head, that her face might be concealed by her hood, she said, in a voice tremulous from conflicting passions—
“How little did I ever expect to hear Frederic Westbury speak to me in a severe tone!”
“Severe! Maria—Miss Eldon? Does common justice to Mrs. Westbury sound harshly in your ear?”
“Certainly not—but your tone—your manner are notwhat they were, and I had hoped that no circumstances, no new engagements, would prevent your retaining a kindly feeling towards one whom—” she hesitated—“One whom I once loved,” said Mr. Westbury, finishing the sentence for her. “Yes, you well know that I once loved you.”
“Once?” interrupted Miss Eldon. “But this is man's fidelity!”
“Miss Eldon, you astonish me,” said Mr. Westbury. “I am married; my wife commands my respect—nay, my admiration; and duty, honor, every thing commands that all former ties, however tender, should be broken. Our happiness, our respectability demands that henceforth we be only common acquaintance.”
“Be it so—farewell!” said Miss Eldon, with irrepressible bitterness of expression, and snatching her hand from beneath his arm, she sprang forward and took that of her brother, who had just issued from the parlor.
“Is that—can that be Maria Eldon?” thought Mr. Westbury—“the amiable! the feeling! the refined Maria! Where has my love, my admiration, my passion for her gone? or rather, by what blindness were they at first excited? Does she wish to retain—nay, does she claim the heart of the husband of another? What perversion of principle is here!”
The crowd at the door was by this time nearly dispersed, and Mr. Westbury, advancing to the trio that still remained near the bust, drew his wife's arm within his, and bidding Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth “good night,” led her to their carriage.
“How have you enjoyed yourself this evening?” Mr. Westbury inquired, as soon as the carriage-door was closed, and the coachman had mounted his box.
“Quite as well as I ever do scenes of similar character,” Julia answered.
“Do you not then relish society?”
“Not very well in such largemasses,” said Julia. “To my apprehension, very large parties counteract the purpose for which social feelings were implanted within us.”
“Then youdisapprove, as well as disrelish, them?” said Mr. Westbury.
“I fear they are not quite innocent,” said Julia. “So far as my observation has extended, they have little tendency to increase benevolence, or any of the finer feelings of the heart. I have often feared, that vanity and thirst for admiration, were the causes that draw together one half of the crowd; and a vulgar love of luxuries the other.”
“Those causes surely do not influence all those who attend large assemblies,” said Mr. Westbury. “Such persons as Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth, for instance, are entirely above them.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Julia. “Still I believe the rule as general as any other.”
“Does not the elegant and instructive conversation of such a man as Mr. Eveleth reconcile you to the crowd?” Mr. Westbury inquired.
“Certainly not,” said Julia. “How much more highly such conversation would be enjoyed—how much greater benefit derived from it, in a small circle. Artificial delicacy and refinement—artificial feeling—artificial good-nature—artificial friendship, are the usual compound that make up large companies. Had Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth spent this evening with us, in our quiet parlor, how much greater would have been the enjoyment! how much more profitably the time might have been occupied!”
“It might,” said Mr. Westbury. “Mr. Eveleth has great colloquial powers. His conversation is at once brilliant and instructive. I know no gentleman who equals him in this particular.”
“I cannot say quite as much as that,” said Julia, “though he certainly converses uncommonly well.”
“Who can you name that is his equal?” asked Mr. Westbury.
Julia hesitated a little, and blushed a great deal, though her blushes were unseen, as she said—“In conversational powers, I think my present companion is very rarely, if ever excelled. And why,” she added, “such gentlemen should mingle in crowds, where their talents are in a great measure lost, instead of meeting in select circles, where they could find congenial minds—minds, at least, in some degree capable of appreciating them, I cannot conceive. But I suppose my ideas of rational enjoyment, of elegant society are very singular.” She stopped short, fearing she was saying too much, but Mr. Westbury requested her to proceed. After a minute's hesitation she said—
“I think the crowded drawing room should be abandoned to those who are capable of no higher enjoyment than gossip, nonsense, flirtation, and eating oysters, confections and creams; and that people of talent, education, principle, and refinement, should associate freely in small circles, and with little ceremony. In such kind of intercourse, new friendships would be formed and old ones cemented, the mind and heart would be improved, and the demons of envy and detraction excluded. After an evening spent in such a circle, the monitor within would be at peace, and the blessing and protection of Heaven could be sought, without a feeling of shame, and self-condemnation.”
“Then yourconscienceis really at war with large parties?” said Mr. Westbury.
“I cannot deny that it is,” Julia answered. “Impelled by circumstances, I have striven to think they mightsometimesbe innocently attended, and perhaps they may; but I confess that the reproaches of my own conscience are more and more severe, every time I repeat the indulgence. Whatever they be to others, I am constrained to believe they are not innocent for me.”
Mr. Westbury made no reply, for at that moment the carriage stopped at their own door, and the subject was not again resumed.
Every party was sure to procure for Mrs. Westbury the favor of a call from Mrs. Cunningham. On the following morning, at as early an hour as etiquette would allow, she made her appearance.
“I could not stay away this morning,” she said, the moment she entered. “I am so vexed, and so hurt, that I must have the sympathy of some friendly heart; and you are a friend to every one, especially when in trouble.”
“What troubles you, Mrs. Cunningham?” Mrs. Westbury inquired.
“You recollect,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “what I said to you last night about Mr. Cunningham's indisposition. Well, as soon as I got home, I ran up stairs, of course, you know, to see how he was, expecting tofind him abed and asleep. Judge how I felt, when I found my bed as I left it, and no husband in the chamber. I flew down stairs, and searched every room for him, but in vain. I then rang for Peggy, and asked ‘if she knew where Mr. Cunningham was.’ ‘La, ma'am,’ said she, ‘I'm sure I don't know. He went out just after you did. He called me to give charge about the fires, and said he was going out. I thought he had altered his mind and was going to Mrs. T——'s.’ I dismissed the girl, and went to my chamber, in an agony, as you may suppose. I declare I hardly know what I did or thought for three long hours—for it was so long before Mr. Cunningham came home! I don't know what I said to him when he came, but he was not the kind, affectionate creature, that he ever has been, for he almost harshly told me ‘to cease my upbraidings’—upbraidings!think what a word—‘for if I sought pleasure where I liked, I must not quarrel with him for doing the same!’ My dear Mrs. Westbury, I could not make him tell me where he had been, do all I could—and I have horrible surmises. What shall I do? I am sick at heart, and almost distracted.”
“Will you follow my advice, my dear Mrs. Cunningham?” said Mrs. Westbury, who truly pitied her distress, much as she blamed her.
“O, yes—I will do any thing to feel happier than I now do. Really my heart is broken,” and she burst into a passion of tears.
Mrs. Westbury attempted to soothe her, and then said—
“Forgive me, if I wound, when I would only heal. You have been a little imprudent, and must retrace your steps by conforming to the taste of your husband. He does not like crowds, and you must in part relinquish them for his sake.”
“And is not that hard?” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Why should he not conform to my taste, as well as I to his? Why mustmenalways have their own way?”
“That point it is not worth while to discuss,” said Mrs. Westbury. “Your happiness, my friend, is at stake. Can you hesitate an instant which to relinquish, those pleasures, which, after all, are so unsatisfying, or the approbation, the happiness, perhaps the heart, even, of your husband?”
“But why,” persisted Mrs. Cunningham, “need he be so obstinate? You see he could go out and stay till two in the morning! It seems as if he did it on purpose to torment me,” and she again burst into tears.
“I have not the least doubt,” said Mrs. Westbury, “that would you yield to Mr. Cunningham's wishes—would you let him see that you care more about pleasing him than yourself, he would cheerfully, andfrequentlyperhaps, accommodate himself to your taste. Few men will bear beingdriven, and they would be objects of our contempt if they would, for authority is divinely delegated to them; but there arevery fewwho have notgenerosityenough to take pleasure in gratifying the wife, who evidently strives to meet his wishes, and is willing to sacrifice her own pleasures, that she may promote his happiness.”
“But I can't see,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “why my happiness is not of as much consequence as my husband's. I can't see, why allsacrificeshould be on my side!”
“Do you not perceive,” said Mrs. Westbury, “that the sacrifices you make, are made to secure your happiness, and not to destroy it?”
“I don't know,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “I can't bear to have Ned think to manage me as he would a little child, and then punish me, as he did last night, if I don't do just as he says. I don't think it fair! And I don't know as it would be of any avail, should I follow your advice. Some men will beugly, do what you will! And why should you understandmanagingthe men better than I do? You are two or three years younger!”
“I never studied how tomanagethem,” said Mrs. Westbury; “but I have thought a good deal on the best way of securing domestic happiness; and reason, observation, and the word of God teach me, that would the wife be happy and beloved, she must ‘be in subjection to her own husband.’ He may not always be reasonable, but she cannot ‘usurp authority,’ without at once warring against Heaven, and her own peace, and respectability. Think of it, my dear Mrs. Cunningham, ruminate upon it, and in your decision be careful not to letwillinfluence you to sacrifice a greater good for a less. It is not degrading for a wife to submit to her husband. On the contrary, she never appears more lovely than when cheerfully and gracefully yielding up her own wishes, that she may comply with his. Women were not made to rule; and in my view, the wife who attempts to govern, and the husband who submits to be governed, are equally contemptible.”
“What an admirable wife you would be for a tyrant!” exclaimed Mrs. Cunningham. “I never heard the doctrine ofpassive obediencemore strenuously inculcated. Indeed, you would make a tyrant of any man!”
“If any thing would disarm the tyrant,” said Mrs. Westbury, “I think thispassive obediencewould do it, if at the same time, it were acheerfulobedience. But happily,youhave no tyrant to disarm. Your husband, I am satisfied, would be easily pleased. Try, my friend, for a little while, to yield to him, and see if you do not meet a rich reward.”
“Well, I will think of it,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “and perhaps shall do as you advise; for really I am very wretched now. O, dear, I do wish the men were not so obstinate! so overbearing! so selfish!”
For some time things went on very calmly with Julia. Though there was nothing tender, or even affectionate in the manner of her husband, there was a gradual alteration, sufficient to keep hope alive, and stimulate her to exertion. He spent more and more of his leisure time at home, and was at least becomingreconciledto her society. Julia's system of visiting had been partially adopted, and Mr. Westbury enjoyed it highly. Mr. and Mrs. Eveleth, and a few other friends of congenial minds, had been invited to drop in occasionally without ceremony; the invitation had been complied with, and Mr. Westbury and Julia had returned a few visits of this kind. Thus many evenings had been pleasantly, and profitably spent. Another great comfort to Julia, was, that her husband had cheerfully permitted her to decline several invitations to attend large parties, and had sometimes remained at home with her himself, and even when he had thought best, on his own part, to accept the invitation, he had been absent but a shorttime, and had then returned to pass the remainder of the evening with his wife.
But after awhile, this faint gleam of sunshine began to fade away. A cloud of care seemed settling on Mr. Westbury's brow, he passed less and less time at home, till at length Julia scarcely saw him, except at mealtimes. “What is the matter?” thought Julia. “Am I the cause? is Miss Eldon? or is it some perplexity in his affairs?” She longed to inquire. If she had displeased him, she wished to correct whatever had given displeasure. If his sadness was in any way connected with Miss Eldon, of course she could in no way interfere; but if it originated in any cause foreign to either, she ardently desired to offer her sympathy, and share his sorrows. Day after day passed, without producing any favorable change, and Julia's feelings were wrought up to agony. She resolved, at all hazards, to inquire into the cause of his depression.
He came in late one evening, and taking a seat near the table, beside which Julia was sitting, leaned his head on his hand. Half an hour passed without a word being uttered. “Now is my time,” thought Julia. “Yet how can I do it? What can I say? A favored wife would seat herself on his knee, entwine his neck with her arms, and penetrate his very heart—but I, alas, should only disgust by such freedom?” She drew a sigh, and summoning all her courage, said, in a timid voice—
“I fear I have unwittingly offended you.”
Mr. Westbury looked up in some surprise, and assured her “that she had not.”
“You have absented yourself from home so much of late,” said Julia, “that I feared your own fireside was becoming less agreeable to you than ever.”
“Business of importance,” said Mr. Westbury, “has of late demanded all my time, and to-morrow I must start for New York.”
“For New York!” said Julia. “To be absent how long?”
“That,” said Mr. Westbury, “must depend on circumstances. I may be absent some time.”
“May I not hope to hear from you occasionally?” Julia assumed courage to ask.
“Yes—I will certainly write, from time to time.”
“He does not ask me to write,” thought Julia, with a sigh. “He is quite indifferent how she fares whom he calls his wife!”
The following morning witnessed the departure of Mr. Westbury, and Julia was left to painful conjecture as to the cause of his dejection. Three weeks passed away, in each of which she received a letter from him, comporting exactly with his manner toward her—friendly and respectful, but neither tender nor confiding.
At the close of that period Julia was one day alarmed by the unceremonious entrance of a sheriff's officer. He was the bearer of a writ of attachment, with orders to seize all the furniture.
“At whose suit do you come?” Julia asked the officer.
“At Mr. Eldon's, madam. He holds a note of some thousands against Mr. Westbury, and thinks no time is to be lost in making it secure. You have jewels of value, madam, which I was ordered to include in the attachment.”
“Will you allow me a few minutes for reflection?” said Julia, whose faculties seemed benumbed by the suddenness of the blow.
“Certainly, madam, certainly—any accommodation in my power I shall be happy to grant.”
“WhatcanI do? whatoughtI to do?” thought Julia. “O, that Mr. Westbury were at home! Mr. Eveleth—yes—I will send for him; he can advise me, if the officer will only wait.”
“Will you suspend your operations for half an hour, sir,” asked Julia, “that I may send for a friend to advise and assist me?”
“Why, my time is very precious, madam, and my orders to attach were peremptory; nevertheless, half an hour will make no great difference, so to oblige you, I will wait.”
The pale and trembling Julia instantly despatched a servant for Mr. Eveleth, and in twenty minutes that gentleman arrived. He was instantly made acquainted with the business in hand, and without hesitation receipted for the furniture, and dismissed the officer. Julia felt relieved of an enormous burden, when the officer left the house—though in her trepidation she scarcely comprehended how he was induced to go, and leave every thing as it was. As soon as she was sufficiently composed and collected to take a pen, she wrote to her husband, giving an account of all that had transpired. Her letter despatched, she had nothing to do but wait in torturing suspense, till she should either see or hear from him. On the third evening, as she was sitting with her eyes resting on the carpet, alternately thinking of her husband, and of her own embarrassing situation, and at times raising her heart to heaven for strength and direction—as she was thus sitting, in deep and melancholy musing, Mr. Westbury entered the apartment. Quick as thought she sprang towards him, exclaiming—
“O, my dear husband, how glad I am that you are come! But what is the matter?” she cried, as he sank into a chair—“you are very ill!”
“I find that I am,” said Mr. Westbury. “My strength has just sufficed to fetch me home.”
Julia took his hand, and found it was burning with fever, and instantly despatching a servant for a physician, she assisted her husband to his chamber. The medical gentleman soon arrived, and pronounced Mr. Westbury in a confirmed fever. For twenty days, Julia was in an agony of suspense. With intense anxiety she watched every symptom, and administered every medicine with her own hand, lest some mistake should be made. It was in vain that the physician entreated her to take some care of herself; she could do nothing, think of nothing, but that which related to her husband. When nature was completely exhausted, she would take an hour's troubled repose, and then be again at her post. On every account, the thought of his death was terrible. “To be lost to me,” thought she, “is unutterably dreadful—but, O, it is a trifle when compared to being lost to himself! He is not fit for heaven. He has never sought the intercession of the great Advocate, through whom alone we can enter on eternal life.” How fervently did she pray that his life might be prolonged! that he might come forth from his affliction like ‘gold seven times refined!’
Mr. Westbury was exceedingly reduced, but there had been no symptom of delirium, though weaknessand pain compelled him to remain almost constantly silent. Occasionally, however, he expressed his gratitude to Julia for her unremitted attentions; begged her,for his sake, to take all possible care of her own health, for if her strength should fail, such another nurse—so tender—so vigilant—could not be found. Julia entreated him to take no thought for her, as she doubted not that her heavenly Father would give her strength for the discharge of every duty. Sometimes, when he was uttering a few words of commendation, she panted to say—“Aimez moi, au lieu de me louer;” but with a sigh she would bury the thought at the bottom of her heart, and proceed in the discharge of her duties. Oftentimes she would kneel for an hour together, at his bedside, when he appeared to be sleeping, with his hand clasped in hers, dividing the time between counting his fluttering pulse, and raising her heart to heaven in his behalf.
But Julia's constitution was unequal to the task she had undertaken. Protracted fatigue and anxiety did their work, and on the day that her husband was pronounced convalescent, she was conveyed to a bed of sickness. Unlike Mr. Westbury, she was in a constant state of delirium, induced by mental anxiety, and unremitting watching. Most touchingly would she beg to go to her husband, as he was dying for want of her care. It was in vain that she was told he was better—was rapidly recovering; the impression was gone in an instant, and her mind reverted to his danger. Her physician was anxious that Mr. Westbury should visit her chamber, as soon as he could do so with safety, hoping that the sight of him might change the current of her thoughts, and remove that anxiety that greatly heightened her fever. At the end of ten days he was able to be supported to her chamber, and advancing to the bedside, he said—
“My dear Julia, I am able to come and see you.”
“Thank heaven,” said Julia, clasping her hands—and then raising her eyes, she added—“Heavenly Father, I thank thee! But how sick you look,” she continued; “O, pray go to bed, and I will come and nurse you. I shall very soon berested, and then they will let me come.”
“I will sit by, and watch and nurse you now, Julia,” said Mr. Westbury—“so try to go to sleep—it will do you good.”
“You called meJulia,” said she, smiling; “O, how sweetly that sounded! But I will mind you, and try to sleep, for my head feels strangely.”
She closed her eyes, and Mr. Westbury sat at the head of the bed, watching her with intense interest. Presently her lips moved, and he leaned forward to hear what she was saying.
“O, should he die,” she murmured in the softest tone—“O, should he die without ever loving me!—die, without knowing how much—how fondly I loved him! And, O,” she added, in a whisper, while an expression of deep solemnity settled on her features—“O, should he die without ever loving the blessed Saviour!—that would be the most dreadful of all!”
Presently a noise in the street disturbed her, and she opened her eyes. She did not see her husband, as she had turned her face a little on the other side, and calling the nurse, she said—
“Do beg them to make less noise; they will kill my dear husband—I know just how it makes his poor head feel,” and she clasped her own with her hands.
Mr. Westbury's feelings were much moved, and his debility was such he could with difficulty restrain them. He found he must return to his own chamber, and taking his wife's hand, he said—
“I hope to be able to come and see you now, every day, my dear Julia.”
“O, do,” she said—“and always call me Julia, will you?—it sounds so kindly!”
Scenes similar to this were constantly recurring for the next ten days. Mr. Westbury continued to gain strength, though his recovery was somewhat retarded by his visits to Julia's chamber, while she was gradually sinking under the violence of her disease. The hopes, however, which her physician gave of her recovery, were not delusive. Within three weeks of the time of her seizure, a crisis took place, and the next day she was pronounced out of danger.
Soon after this, Mr. Westbury was able to attend a little to business, but all the time he was in the house, was spent in Julia's chamber. One day, after she had so far recovered her strength as to be able to sit up for an hour or two at a time, he chanced to be left alone with her.
“My dear Julia,” said he, as he took her emaciated hand, and folded it between his own—“I can never express my gratitude to you for your kind attentions to an unworthy husband; nor my thankfulness to heaven that your precious life did not fall a sacrifice to your efforts to save mine. I hope to prove by my future conduct, that I have learned to appreciate your value.”
He spoke in the softest tones of love, while his eyes were humid with tears.
“Do you, then, love me?” said Julia.
“Love you!—yes, most tenderly—with my whole heart,” said Westbury; “more than any thing—more than every thing else on earth!”
Julia leaned her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears.
“Why do you weep, Julia?” said Westbury.
“O, I am so happy!” said Julia. “There wants but one thing to make my cup of blessedness quite full.”
“And what is that, dearest?”
“That you should give your first—your best affections where alone they are deserved—to your Creator.”
“I trust, my dear wife,” said Mr. Westbury, with deep feeling, “I trust that your precious intercessions for me at the throne of mercy, have been answered. My bed of sickness was a bed of reflection, of retrospection, of remorse, and, I hope, of true penitence. I feel as if in a new world; ‘old things have passed away, and all things have become new.’”
Julia clasped her hands together, leaned her face upon them, and for a long time remained perfectly silent. At length she raised her head, and said—
“Your fortune, I suppose, is gone—but what of that? It was a trifle—a toy—compared with the blessings now bestowed. A cottage—any place will be a paradise to me, possessing the heart of my husband, and he a believer!”
“My dear Julia,” said Westbury, “my fortune is unimpaired. I was in danger of sustaining great loss, through the embarrassments of my banker in New York, but all is now happily adjusted. The difficultyhere, was the result of malice. Eldon was embittered against me, I doubt not, through the influence of his sister—of whom it is unnecessary to speak to you. He heard of my difficulties, and knowing that he should be perfectly safe, purchased that note against me, that he might avenge her, by increasing my embarrassments. I have been recently informed that that unhappy girl looked on yourpearlswith peculiar malignity. Her feelings were too bitter, and too strong for concealment. Poor girl—I fear that she and her brother are kindred in heart, as well as blood. I now look with something like terror, at the gulph into which I wished to plunge myself, and from which my dear father alone saved me. I can never be sufficiently thankful, for being turned, almost by force, from my rash and headstrong course; and for having a wife bestowed on me, rich in every mental and moral excellence—who loves me for myself, undeserving as I am, and not for my wealth.”
It was now June; and as soon as Julia's strength was equal to the fatigue, Mr. Westbury took her into the country for change of air. They were absent from the city some months, and made, in the course of the summer, several delightful excursions in various parts of the country. A few days after their return to their house in town, Julia asked Mr. Westbury “if he had seen or heard any thing of the Cunninghams.”
“I have seen neither of them,” said Mr. Westbury, “but hear sad accounts of both. Mrs. Cunningham is now with a party at Nahant. She has been extremely gay, perhaps I might saydissipated, during the whole season, and her reputation is in some danger. Cunningham has become an inveterate gamester, and I am told that his face shows but too plainly, that temperance is not among his virtues.”
“Poor creatures,” said Julia, “how I pity them for their folly—their madness!”
“I pityhimmost sincerely,” said Mr. Westbury, “in being united to a woman who selfishly preferred her ownpleasureto her husband'shappiness.HerI have not yet learned to pity. She richly deserves all she may suffer. Had she taken your advice, Julia—for most touchingly did I hear you warn her!—she might now have been happy, and her husband respectable.Now, they are both lost!—O, that every woman would learn where her true strength—her true happiness lies!—O, that she would learn, that to yield is to conquer! to submit, is to subdue! None but the utterly ignoble and abandoned, could long resist the genial influence of a cheerful, meek, patient, self-denying wife; nay—instances are not wanting, in which the most profligate have been reclaimed through the instrumentality of aconsistentlyamiable and virtuous woman! If the whole sex, my dear Julia, would imbibe your spirit, and follow your example, the effect would soon be manifest. Men would be very different creatures from what they now are, and few wives would have occasion to complain of unkind and obstinate husbands. A vast deal is said of the influence of women on society, and they, themselves, exult in their power; but how seldom, comparatively, do they use it, to benefit themselves, or the world! Let it be a woman's first desire to make her husband good, and happy, and respectable—and seldom will she fail of attaining her object, and at the same time, of securing her own felicity!”