“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.”
“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.