_By the author of the “Cottage in the Glen,” “Sensibility,”_ &c.
Think not, the husband gained, that all is done;
The prize of happiness must still be won;
And, oft, the careless find it to their cost,
The lover in the husband may be lost;
The graces might, alone, his heart allure—
They and the virtues, meeting, must secure.
_Lord Lyttleton_.
Can I not win his love?
Is not his heart of “penetrable stuff?”
Will not submission, meekness, patience, truth,
Win his esteem?—a sole desire to please,
Conquer indifference?—they must—they will!
Aid me, kind heaven—I'll try!
_Anon._
It was a bright and beautiful autumnal evening. The earth was clad in
a garb of the richest and brightest hues; and the clear cerulean of
the heavens, gave place, near the setting sun, to a glowing ‘saffron
color,’ over which was hung a most magnificent drapery of crimson
clouds. Farther towards both the north and south, was suspended here
and there a sable curtain, fringed with gold, folded as but one hand
could fold them. They seemed fitting drapery to shroud the feet of
Him, who “maketh the clouds his chariot, who rideth upon the wings of
the wind.”
Such was the evening on which Edward Cunningham conducted his fair
bride into the mansion prepared for her reception. But had both earth
and heaven been decked with ten-fold splendor, their beauty and
magnificence would have been lost on him; for his thoughts, his
affections, his whole being were centered in the graceful creature
that leaned on his arm, and whom he again and again welcomed to her
new abode—her future home. He forgot that he still moved in a world
that was groaning under the pressure of unnumbered evils; forgot that
earthly joy is oft-times but a dream, a fantasy, that vanishes like
the shadow of a summer cloud, that flits across the landscape, or, as
the morning vapor before the rising sun; forgot that all on this side
heaven, is fleeting, and changeable, and false. In his bride, the
object of his fondest love, he felt that he possessed a treasure whose
smile would be unclouded sunshine to his soul; whose society would
make another Eden bloom for him. It was but six short months since he
first saw her who was now his wife; and for nearly that entire period
he had been in ‘the delirium of love,’ intent only on securing her as
his own. He had attained his object, and life seemed spread before
him, a paradise of delight, blooming with roses, unaccompanied by
thorns.
Joy and sorrow, in this world, dwell side by side. In a stately
mansion, two doors only from the one that had just received the joyful
bridegroom and happy bride, dwelt one who had been four weeks a wife.
On that same bright evening she was sitting in the solitude of her
richly furnished chamber, her elbows resting on a table, her hands
supporting her head, while a letter lay spread before her, on which
her eyes, blinded by tears, were rivetted. The letter was from her
husband. He had been from home nearly three weeks, in which time she
had heard from him but once, and then only by a brief verbal message.
The letter that lay before her had just arrived; it was the first she
had ever received from her husband, and ran thus:—
_Mrs. Westbury_—Thinking you might possibly expect to see me at home
this week, I write to inform you that business will detain me in New
York some time longer.
Yours, &c.
FREDERIC WESTBURY.
For a long time the gentle, the feeling Julia, indulged her tears and
her grief without restraint. Again, and again, she read the laconic
epistle before her, to ascertain what more might be made of it than at
first met the eye. But nothing could be clothed in plainer language,
or be more easily understood. It was as brief, and as much to the
point as those interesting letters which debtors sometimes receive
from their creditors, through the agency of an attorney. “Did ever
youthful bride,” thought she, “receive from her husband such a letter
as this? He _strives_ to show me the complete indifference and
coldness of his heart toward me. O, why did I accept his hand, which
was rather his father's offering than his own? Why did I not listen to
my reason, rather than to my fond and foolish heart, and resist the
kind old man's reasonings and pleadings? Why did I believe him when he
told me I should win his son's affections? Did I not know that his
heart was given to another? Dear old man, he fondly believed his
Frederic's affections could not long be withheld from one whom he
himself loved so tenderly—and how eagerly I drank in his assurances!
Amid all the sorrow that I felt, while kneeling by his dying bed, how
did my heart swell with undefinable pleasure, as he laid his hand,
already chilled by death, upon my head, gave me his parting blessing,
and said that his son would love me! Mistaken assurance! ah, why did I
fondly trust it? Were I now free!—free!—would I then have the knot
untied that makes me his for life? Not for a world like this! No, he
is mine and I am his; by the laws of God and man, _we are one_. He
_must_ sometimes be at home; and an occasional hour in his society,
will be a dearer bliss than aught this world can bestow beside. His
father's blessing is still warm at my heart! I still feel his hand on
my head! Let me act as he trusted I should act, and all may yet be
well! Duties are mine—and thine, heavenly Father, are results.
Overlook my infirmities, forgive all that needs forgiveness, sustain
my weakness, and guide me by thine unerring wisdom.” She fell on her
knees to continue her supplications, and pour out her full soul before
her Father in heaven; and when she arose, her heart, if not happy, was
calm; her brow, if not cheerful, was serene.
Frederic Westbury was an only child. He never enjoyed the advantages
of maternal instruction, impressed on the heart by maternal
tenderness—for his mother died before he was three years old, and all
recollection of her had faded from his memory. Judge Westbury was one
of the most amiable, one of the best of men; but with regard to the
management of his son, he was too much like the venerable Israelitish
priest. His son, like other sons, often did that which was wrong, ‘and
he restrained him not.’ He was neither negligent in teaching, nor in
warning; but instruction and discipline did not, as they ever should
do, go hand-in-hand; and for want of this discipline, Frederic grew up
with passions uncontrolled—with a will unsubdued. He received a
finished education, and his mind, which was of a high order, was
richly stored with knowledge. His pride of character was great, and he
looked down with contempt on all that was dishonorable or vicious. He
had a chivalrous generosity, and a frankness of {414} disposition that
led him to detest concealment or deceit. He loved or hated with his
whole soul. In person he was elegant; his countenance was marked with
high intellect and strong feeling; and he had the bearing of a prince.
Such was Frederic Westbury at the age of four-and-twenty.
About a year before his marriage, Frederic became acquainted with
Maria Eldon, a young lady of great beauty of person, and fascination
of manner, who at once enslaved his affections. But against Miss
Eldon, Judge Westbury had conceived a prejudice, and for once in his
life was _obstinate_ in refusing to indulge his son in the wish of his
heart. He foresaw, or thought he did so, the utter ruin of that son's
happiness, should he so ally himself. He had selected a wife for his
son, a daughter-in-law for himself, more to his own taste. Julia
Horton was possessed of all that he thought valuable or fascinating in
woman. Possibly Frederic might have thought so too, had he known her,
ere his heart was in possession of another; but being pointed out to
him as the one to whom he must transfer his affections, he looked on
her with aversion as the chief obstacle to the realization of his
wishes. Julia was born, and had been educated, in a place remote from
Judge Westbury's residence; but from her infancy he had seen her from
time to time, as business led him into that part of the country in
which her parents resided. In her childhood she entwined herself
around the heart of the Judge; and from that period he had looked on
her as the future wife of his son. His views and wishes, however, were
strictly confined to his own breast, until, to his dismay, he found
that his son's affections were entangled. This discovery was no sooner
made than he wrote a pressing letter to Julia, who was now an orphan,
to come and make him a visit of a few weeks. The reason he gave for
inviting her was, that his health was rapidly declining, (which was
indeed too true,) and he felt that her society would be a solace to
his heart. Julia came; she saw Frederic; heard his enlightened
conversation; observed his polished manners; remarked the lofty tone
of his feelings; and giving the reins to her fancy, without consulting
reason or prudence, she loved him. Too late for her security, but too
soon for her peace, she learned that he loved another. Dreading lest
she should betray her folly to the object of her unsought affection,
she wished immediately to return to her native place. But to this
Judge Westbury would not listen. He soon discovered the state of her
feelings, and it gave him unmingled satisfaction. It augured well for
the success of his dearest earthly hope; and as his strength was
rapidly declining, consumption having fastened her deadly fangs upon
him, to hasten him to the grave, he gave his whole mind to the
accomplishment of his design. At first his son listened to the subject
with undisguised impatience; but his feelings softened as he saw his
father sinking to the tomb; and, in an unguarded hour, he promised him
that he would make Julia his wife. Judge Westbury next exerted himself
to obtain a promise from Julia that she would accept the hand of his
son; and he rested not until they had mutually plighted their faith at
his bed-side. To Frederic this was a moment of unmingled misery. He
saw that his father was dying, and felt himself constrained to promise
his hand to one woman, while his heart was in possession of another.
Julia's emotions were of the most conflicting character. To be the
plighted bride of the man she loved, made her heart throb with joy,
and her faith in his father's assurance that she would win his
affections, sustained her hope, that his prediction would be verified.
Yet when she marked the countenance of her future husband, her heart
sank within her. She could not flatter herself into the belief, that
its unmingled gloom arose solely from grief at the approaching death
of his father. She felt that he was making a sacrifice of his fondest
wishes at the shrine of filial duty.
Judge Westbury died; and with almost his parting breath, he pronounced
a blessing upon Julia as his daughter—the wife of his son—most
solemnly repeating his conviction that she would soon secure the heart
of her husband!
Immediately on the decease of her friend and father, Julia returned
home, and in three months Frederic followed her to fulfil his promise.
He was wretched, and would have given a world, had he possessed it, to
be free from his engagement. But that could never be. His word had
been given to his father, and must be religiously redeemed. “I will
make her my wife,” thought he; “I promised my father that I would.
Thank heaven, I never promised him that I would love her!” Repugnant
as such an union was to his feelings, he was really impatient to have
it completed; for as his idea of his duty and obligation went not
beyond the bare act of making her his wife, he felt that, that once
done, he should be comparatively a free man.
“I am come,” said he to Julia, “to fulfil my engagement. Will you name
a day for the ceremony?”
His countenance was so gloomy, his manners so cold—so utterly
destitute of tenderness or kindly feeling, that something like terror
seized Julia's heart; and without making any reply, she burst into
tears.
“Why these tears, Miss Horton?” said he. “Our mutual promise was given
to my father; it is fit we redeem it.”
“No particular time was specified,” said Julia timidly, and with a
faltering voice. “Is so much haste necessary?”
“My father wished that no unnecessary delay should be made,” said
Frederic, “and I can see no reason why we should not as well be
married now, as at any future period. If you consult my wishes, you
will name an early day.”
The day was fixed, and at length arrived, presenting the singular
anomaly of a man eagerly hastening to the altar, to utter vows from
which his heart recoiled, and a woman going to it with trembling and
reluctance, though about to be united to him who possessed her
undivided affections.
The wedding ceremony over, Mr. Westbury immediately took his bride to
his elegantly furnished house; threw it open for a week, to receive
bridal visits; and then gladly obeyed a summons to New York, to attend
to some affairs of importance. On leaving home, he felt as if released
from bondage. A sense of propriety had constrained him to pay some
little attention to his bride, and to receive the congratulations of
his friends with an air of satisfaction, at least; while those very
congratulations congealed his heart, by bringing to mind the ties he
had formed with one he could not love, to the impossibility of his
forming them with the one whom he idolized. When he had been absent
about ten days, {415} he availed himself of an opportunity to send a
verbal message to his wife, informing her that he was well, and should
probably be at home in the course of two weeks; but when that period
was drawing toward a close, his business was not completed, and as
home was the last place he wished to visit, he resolved to protract
his absence, so long as he had a reasonable excuse. “I must write, and
inform her of the change in my plan,” thought he, “decency demands it,
yet how can I write? My dear Julia!—my dear wife! No such thing—she is
not dear to me!
‘Ce cœur au moins, difficile à domter,
Ne peut aimer ni par ordre d'un père,
Ni par raison.’
She is my wife—she is Mrs. Westbury—she is mistress of my house, and
must share my fortune—let that suffice her! It must have been for
these that she married me. A name! a fortune! an elegant
establishment! Mean! ambitious! heartless! Thou, Maria—bright,
beautiful, and tender—thou wouldest have married me for myself! Alas,
I am undone! O, my father!” Under the influence of feelings like
these, he wrote the laconic epistle which cost his bride so many
bitter tears.
It was at the close of about two weeks from this, that Julia was
sitting one evening in her parlor, dividing the time betwixt her work
and a book, when the door-bell rang, and a minute after the parlor
door opened, and Mr. Westbury entered. With sparkling eyes and glowing
cheeks, she sprang forward, her hand half extended to meet his—but his
ceremonious bow, and cold “good evening Mrs. Westbury,” recalled her
recollection; and scarcely able to reply to his civility, she sank
back on her chair. She thought she was prepared to see him cold and
distant—thought she expected it—but she had deceived herself.
Notwithstanding all her bitter ruminations on her husband's
indifference toward her, there had been a little under current of
hope, playing at the bottom of her heart, and telling her he might
return more cordial than he went. His cold salutation, and colder eye,
sent her to her seat, disappointed, sick at heart, and nearly
fainting. In a minute, however, she recovered her self-possession, and
made those inquiries concerning his health and journey, that propriety
dictated. In spite of himself, she succeeded in some degree in drawing
him out. She was gentle, modest, and unobtrusive—and good sense and
propriety were conspicuous in all she said. Beside, she looked very
pretty. Her figure, though rather below the medium size, was very
fine, her hand and foot of unrivalled beauty. She was dressed with
great simplicity, but good taste was betrayed in every thing about her
person. She wore her dress, too, with a peculiar grace, equally remote
from precision and negligence. Her features were regular, and her
complexion delicate; but the greatest attraction of her face, was the
facility and truth with which it expressed every feeling of the heart.
When Mr. Westbury first entered the parlor, an observer might have
pronounced her beautiful; but the bright glow of transient joy that
then kindled her cheek, had faded away, and left her pale—so pale,
that Mr. Westbury inquired, even with some little appearance of
interest, “whether her health was as good as usual?” Her voice, which
was always soft and melodious, was even softer and sweeter than usual,
as she answered “that it was.” Mr. Westbury at length went so far as
to make some inquiries relative to her occupations during his absence,
whether she had called on the new bride, Mrs. Cunningham, and other
questions of similar consequence. For the time he forgot Maria Eldon;
was half unconscious that Julia was his wife—and viewing her only as a
companion, he passed an hour or two very comfortably.
* * * * *
One day when Mr. Westbury came in to dinner, Julia handed him a card
of compliments from Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, who were about giving a
splendid party.
“I have returned no answer,” said Julia, “not knowing whether you
would wish to accept the invitation or not.”
“For yourself, you can do as you please, Mrs. Westbury—but I shall
certainly attend it.”
“I am quite indifferent about the party,” said Julia, “as such scenes
afford me little pleasure; but should be pleased to do as you think
proper—as you think best.” Her voice trembled a little, as she spoke;
for she had not yet become sufficiently accustomed to Mr. Westbury's
_brusque_ manner toward herself, to hear it with perfect firmness. “I
should think it very suitable that you pay Mr. and Mrs. Brooks this
attention,” Mr. Westbury replied.
Nothing more was said on the subject, and Julia returned an answer
agreeable to the wishes of her husband.
The evening to visit Mrs. Brooks at length arrived, and Julia repaired
to her chamber to dress for the occasion. To render herself pleasing
in the eyes of her husband was the sole wish of her heart, but how to
do this was the question. She would have given the world to know his
taste, his favorite colors, and other trifles of the like nature—but
of these she was completely ignorant, and must therefore be guided by
her own fancy. “Simplicity,” thought she—“simplicity is the surest
way; for it never disgusts—never offends, if it does not captivate.”
Accordingly, she arrayed herself in a plain white satin—and over her
shoulders was thrown a white blond mantle, with an azure border, while
a girdle of the same hue encircled her waist. Her toilet completed,
Julia descended to the parlor, her shawl and calash in her hand. Mr.
Westbury was waiting for her, and just casting his eyes over her
person, he said—“If you are ready, Mrs. Westbury, we will go
immediately, as it is now late.” Most of the guests were already
assembled when they arrived at the mansion opened for their reception,
and it was not quite easy to get access to the lady of the house, to
make their compliments. This important duty, however, was at length
happily accomplished, and Mr. Westbury's next effort was to obtain a
seat for his wife. She would have preferred retaining his arm, at
least for a while, as few persons present were known to her, and she
felt somewhat embarrassed and confused; but she durst not say so, as,
from her husband's manner, she saw that he wished to be free from such
attendance. In such matters the heart of a delicate and sensitive
woman seldom deceives her. Is it that her instincts are superior to
those of men?
Julia had been seated but a short time before Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham
approached her, and entered into a lively conversation. This was a
great relief to Julia, who could have wept at her solitary and
neglected situation, alone, in the midst of a crowd. Mrs. Cunningham
{416} was in fine spirits, and her husband appeared the happiest of
the happy. Not that he appeared particularly to enjoy society—but his
blooming wife was by his side, and his eyes rested on her with looks
of the tenderest love—while the sound of her voice seemed constantly
to awaken a thrill of pleasure in his heart. After conversing with
Julia awhile, Mrs. Cunningham said—
“Do you prefer sitting to walking, Mrs. Westbury? Pray take my arm,
and move about with us a little—it looks so dull for a person to sit
through a party.”
Julia gladly accepted the offer, and was soon drawn away from herself,
in listening to the lively rattle of her companion, who, although only
a resident of a few weeks in the city, seemed already acquainted with
all the gentlemen, and half the ladies present. An hour had been
passed in this manner, and in partaking of the various refreshments
that were provided—to which Julia did little honor, though this was of
no consequence, as Mrs. Cunningham amply made up all her deficiencies
of this kind—when the sound of music in another room attracted their
attention. Julia was extremely fond of music, and as their present
situation, amid the confusion of tongues, was very unfavorable for its
enjoyment, Mr. Cunningham proposed that they should endeavor to make
their way to the music room. After considerable detention, they
succeeded in accomplishing their object, so far at least as to get
fairly within the door. Considering the number of persons present, and
how few there are that do not prefer the music of their own tongues to
any other melody, the room was remarkably still—a compliment deserved
by the young lady who sat to the piano, who played and sang with great
skill and feeling. Julia's attention was soon attracted to her
husband, who was standing on the opposite side of the room, leaning
against the wall, his arms folded across his breast, his eyes resting
on the performer with an expression of warm admiration, while a deep
shade of melancholy was cast over his features. Julia's heart beat
tumultuously. “Is it the music,” thought she, “or the musician that
thus rivets his attention? Would I knew who it is that plays and sings
so sweetly!” She did not remain long in doubt. The song finished, all
voices were warm in its praise.
“How delightfully Miss Eldon plays! and with what feeling she sings!”
exclaimed Mrs. Cunningham. “I never listened to a sweeter voice!”
The blood rushed to Julia's head, and back again to her heart, like a
torrent; a vertigo seized her; and all the objects before her, were,
for a moment, an indistinct, whirling mass. But she did not faint; she
did not even betray her feelings, though she took the first
opportunity to leave the room, and obtain a seat. For a long time she
was unconscious of all that was passing around her; she could not even
think—she only felt. Her husband's voice was the first thing that
aroused her attention. He was standing near her with another
gentleman; but it was evident that neither of them were aware of her
proximity.
“Mrs. Brooks looks uncommonly well to-night,” said Mr. Westbury's
companion; “her dress is peculiarly becoming.”
“It would be,” said Mr. Westbury, “were it not for those blue
ribbands; but I can think no lady looks well who has any of that
odious color about her.”
“It is one of the most beautiful and delicate colors in the world,”
said the other gentleman. “I wonder at your taste.”
“It does finely in its place,” said Mr. Westbury—“that is—in the
heavens above our heads—but never about the person of a lady.”
Julia wished her mantle and her girdle in Africa—“Yet why?” thought
she. “I dare say he is ignorant that I have any of the color he so
much dislikes, about me! His heart belongs to another, and he cares
not—minds not, how she is clad whom he calls wife.”
Mr. Westbury and his friend now moved to another part of the room, and
it was as much as Julia could do, to answer with propriety the few
remarks that a passing acquaintance now and then made to her. At
length the company began to disperse, and presently Julia saw Mr.
Westbury leading Miss Eldon from the room. His head was inclined
toward her; a bright hectic spot was on his cheek, and he was speaking
to her in the softest tone, as they passed near where Julia was
sitting. Miss Eldon's eyes were raised to his face, while her
countenance wore a mingled expression of pain and pleasure. Julia had
just time enough to remark all this, ere they left the room. “O, that
I were away!” thought she—“that I were at home!—that I were—in my
grave!” She sat perfectly still—perfectly unconscious of all that was
going forward, until Mr. Westbury came to her, inquiring “whether she
meant to be the last to take leave?” Julia mechanically arose,
mechanically made her parting compliments to Mrs. Brooks—and scarcely
knew any thing till she arrived at her own door. Just touching her
husband's hand, she sprung from the carriage, and flew to her chamber.
For a while she walked the floor in an agony of feeling. The
constraint under which she had labored, served but to increase the
violence of her emotion, now that she was free to indulge it. “O, why
did I attend this party?” at length thought she—“O, what have I not
suffered!” After a while, however, her reason began to operate. “What
have I seen, that I ought not to have expected?” she asked herself.
“What have I learned that I knew not before? except,” she added, “a
trifling fact concerning my husband's taste.” Julia thought long and
deeply; her spirits became calm; she renewed former resolutions;
looked to heaven for wisdom to guide, and strength to sustain her—and
casting aside the mantle, which would henceforth be useless to her,
she instinctively threw a shawl over her shoulders to conceal the
unlucky girdle, and, though the hour was late, descended to the
parlor. Mr. Westbury was sitting by a table, leaning his head on his
hand. It was not easy for Julia to address him on any subject not too
exciting to her feelings—and still more difficult perfectly to command
her voice, that its tones might be those of ease and cheerfulness; yet
she succeeded in doing both. The question she asked, led Mr. Westbury
to look up, and he was struck by the death-like paleness on her cheek.
Julia could by an effort control her voice; she could in a degree
subdue her feelings; but she could not command the expression of her
countenance—could not bid the blood visit or recede from her cheeks at
her will. She knew not, indeed, that at this time she was pale; her
own face was the last thing in her mind. Mr. Westbury had no sooner
answered her question, than he added—“You had better retire, Mrs.
Westbury. You look as if the fatigues of the evening had been too much
for you.”
{417} “_Fatigues_ of the evening!—_Agonies_ rather,” 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 music_ over 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—
“Thou mind'st me of departed joys,
Departed, never to return”—
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
sing _that 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.”
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.”
{418} Mr. Cunningham looked a little hurt, as he said—“my dear Lucy,
am I not _more than willing_ to 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 the
_penserosa_ mingle 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 a _duty_ to 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 conversation _there_.”
Mr. Westbury turned his eyes, and saw that Julia was surrounded by the
_elite_ of 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 merely {419} accidental 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 a _pattern_ wife,
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. Are _you_ much 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 a {420} secret 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.”
{421} “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 too _stingy_ to dress his wife decently,
fail to excuse himself on the ground of necessity. How I do detest to
hear a man talk of _ruin_, 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 though _I 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 so _frozen_ as 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 has _but once_ seen 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—may _that_ ever 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 this _lawful_ for me? It
is my duty—it is my _pleasure_ to comply with all his wishes, where
superior duties do not forbid; but is it allowable for me to try to
please him _thus_? 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 not _quite_ clear 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.
{422} “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 be _obstinate_ as 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 I _will
not_ submit 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 too _fade_ for 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 her _confidential friends_ of 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 she _loved_; 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 her _ci-devant_ lover 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 not {423} what 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 large _masses_,” said Julia. “To my
apprehension, very large parties counteract the purpose for which
social feelings were implanted within us.”
“Then you _disapprove_, 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 your _conscience_ is 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 might _sometimes_ be
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 to
{424} find 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.