Chapter III: Part 3

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.

Mrs. Westbury attempted to soothe her, and then said—

“Forgive me, if I wound, when I would only heal. You have been a little imprudent, and must retrace your steps by conforming to the taste of your husband. He does not like crowds, and you must in part relinquish them for his sake.”

“And is not that hard?” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Why should he not conform to my taste, as well as I to his? Why 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!”

THE SWAN OF LOCH OICH.

A solitary wild swan may be seen on Loch Oich. It has sailed there for twenty or thirty years, in summer and winter. It had a mate, but about twenty years ago the master of a trading vessel (more wantonly barbarous than the Duke of Cumberland when he burned the old castle of Inverrgarry,) shot the bird. The Glengary swan, however, kept its solitary range. Last winter three other swans lighted on the lake; they remained a month or two, and it was thought the recluse would depart with them, but it had apparently no desire to change its wonted station. As swans have been known to live upwards of a century, we hope this faithful bird will escape accident and cruelty, and live through two or three generations more, to grace the shores of Loch Oich.

_Inverness Courier_.

Beautiful bird of the Scottish lake,
With plumage pure as the light snow-flake,
With neck of pride and a wing of grace,
And lofty air as of royal race—
Beautiful bird, may you long abide
And grace Loch Oich in your lonely pride.

Bright was the breast of the “loch,” I ween,
Its crystal wave and its sapphire sheen;
And bright its border of shrub and tree,
And thistle-bloom in its fragrancy—
When to thy side thy fair mate prest,
Or skimm'd the lake with her tintless breast.

But she is not! and still, to thee,
Are the sunny wave and the shadowing tree,
The mossy brink and the thistle flower,
Dear, as to thee in that blessed hour!
What is the spell o'er thy pinion thrown
That binds thee here, fair bird, alone?

Does the vision bright of thy peerless bride
Still skim the lake and press thy side?
And haunt the nook in the fir-tree's shade?
And press the moss in the sunny glade?
And has earth nothing, to thee, so fair,
As the gentle spirit that lingers there?

Oh, 'tis a wondrous, wizard spell!
The human bosom its force can tell;
The heart forsaken hath felt, like thine,
The mystic web with its fibres twine,
Constraining still in the scenes to stay,
Where all it treasured had passed away.

Bird of Loch Oich, 'tis well! 'tis well!
You yield your wing to the viewless spell;
Oh, who would seek, with a stranger eye,
For blooming shores and a brilliant sky
And range the earth for the hopeless art,
To find a home for a broken heart?

Oh, I would linger, though all alone,
Where hallowed love its light has thrown,
And hearth and streamlet and tree and flower,
Are link'd in thought with a blessed hour;
Home of my heart, those scenes should be
As thy own Loch Oich, fair bird to thee.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

OTTO VENIUS.

Otto Venius, the designer of “Le Theatre moral de la Vie Humaine,” illustrates Horace's “Raro antecedentem scelestum deseruit _pede_ pœna _claudo_,” by sketching Punishment with a wooden leg.

{428}

DIARY OF AN INVALID.

NO. I.

ULEA HOLSTEIN—A TALE OF THE NORTHERN SEAS.

When I was at Nantucket last summer, trying the virtue of sea-bathing and sea-breezes, for a wearisome chronic disease, I used to resort to every imaginable form of innocent recreation, as a relief to the pain and ennui occasioned by my bodily indisposition. One day, as I was sitting on one of the rocks which project into the sea, observing the multitude of fishing craft that were plying about the island, my attention was arrested by the very remarkable appearance of the commander of a large whale ship. His figure was not strikingly tall or robust; but there were an energy and determination in his look, that seemed to turn his every sinew into iron; while, upon a closer observation, one might read in his upright and noble countenance, a soul of high moral bearing, and a mind unruffled by the passing vexations of life. Such a person always awakens interest, however transiently we may pass him; and although we may not stop, at the time, to define our sentiments, we are struck with something like veneration and awe, when we behold in the midst of hardship, toil, and danger, the tranquillity which marks a mind superior to the accidents of life. But this was not all. One acquainted with human nature, might see under this stern exterior, the generous nature, which would scorn to trample on the weak, or pass by the suffering. I was irresistibly drawn to make some acquaintance with this mariner, but found some difficulty in framing any excuse to accost one of appearance and accent so foreign. Accident soon accomplished the introduction, for which I had taxed my ingenuity in vain. In attempting to descend from my eminence, my decrepid limbs refused their office, and I fell headlong on a shoal of rocks, among which I was scrambling with much pain, when I felt myself raised gently, but powerfully, by a muscular arm. I turned in my distress to see by what kind hand I was assisted, when the eye of the hardy seaman met my inquiring glance. Pity and benevolence shone on his countenance, and I felt even in that moment of corporeal suffering, that the kindred tie of man—yes, of friendship, united us. His first words struck me as being of foreign accent, but his language was that of sympathy, which is read by all nations, and now flowed warm from the heart. After placing me comfortably on the sand, he hastened to his boat lying near, to bring some restoratives in which sailors have much faith. I was soon relieved by his attentions, and desiring to make some return for his kindness, inquired to whom I was indebted for assistance, and in what manner I could show my gratitude. To this the stranger replied, that the action itself brought sufficient reward, since he had been able to relieve a fellow creature. Our acquaintance began from this time, and I gradually drew from him a history of his past life, which had been one of trial and adventure. His narrative was given in our own language, which he spoke very intelligibly, having been long conversant with our seamen.