“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 must _men_ always 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, and
_frequently_ perhaps, accommodate himself to your taste. Few men will
bear being _driven_, and they would be objects of our contempt if they
would, for authority is divinely delegated to them; but there are
_very few_ who have not _generosity_ enough 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 all _sacrifice_
should 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 be _ugly_, do what you will! And why should you
understand _managing_ the men better than I do? You are two or three
years younger!”
“I never studied how to _manage_ them,” 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 let _will_ influence
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 of _passive obedience_ more
strenuously inculcated. Indeed, you would make a tyrant of any man!”
“If any thing would disarm the tyrant,” said Mrs. Westbury, “I think
this _passive obedience_ would do it, if at the same time, it were a
_cheerful_ obedience. But happily, _you_ have 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 becoming _reconciled_ to 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 short {425} time, 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.”
“What _can_ I do? what _ought_ I 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 weakness {426} and 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 be _rested_, 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 me _Julia_,” 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 difficulty
{427} here, 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 your _pearls_ with
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 say _dissipated_, 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 pity _him_ most sincerely,” said Mr. Westbury, “in being united to
a woman who selfishly preferred her own _pleasure_ to her husband's
_happiness_. _Her_ I 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 a _consistently_ amiable 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!”