Burlington Free Press

By the author of 'The Game of Chess,' '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 a '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 riveted. 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.
FREDERICK 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 Frederick's affections could not long be withheld from one whom he himself loved 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 indefinable 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.

Frederick 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, or in warning: but instruction and discipline, did not, as they ever should do, go hand-in-hand; and for want of this discipline, Frederick 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 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 Frederick Westbury at the age of four and twenty.

About a year before his marriage, Frederick became acquainted with Maria Eldon, a young lady of great beauty of person and fascination of manner, who 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 valued or fascinating in woman. Possibly Frederick might have thought so too had he known her ere his heart was in possession of another; but being unacquainted with her as one to whom he must marry, he looked on her with angry eyes as the chief obstacle to the realization of his wishes—
Julia was born, and 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 to 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 heart was engaged. 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 too true) and he felt that her society would be a solace to his heart. Julia came; she saw Frederick: 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, by too soon showing her partiality she learned that his heart was another's.
Dreading lest she should betray herself to the object of her unrequited affection, she wished immediately to return to her own place. But to this Judge Westbury would not listen. He soon discovered the state of her feelings, and it gave him unmingled delight and 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. As first unaccustomed to the subject with his son, but his feelings so strong as he saw him sinking to the tomb: and in an agonal hour he promised him that no lady but Julia his wife. Judge Westbury exerted himself to urge upon Julia that she would accept the hand of his son: and he rested not until he had totally plighted their troth at his bed side.
To Frederick 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 Frederick followed her to fulfill 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 duty and obligation went not beyond the bare act of making her his wife, he felt that once done he should be comparatively free man.

'I am come,' said he to Julia, 'to fulfill 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 Frederick, '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.'

This 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 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, 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 towards a close, his business was not completed, and as home was the last place he wished to visit, he readily consented to protract his absence, so long as he had a reasonable excuse. I must write, thought he, and inform her of the change in my plan, though it 'd convey demands it, yet how can I write? My dear Julia!—my dear wife! No such thing—she is not dear to me! She is my wife—she is Mrs. Westbury—she is mistress of my house, and must share my fortune—let that suffice her! I must lay on for these that she married n.. A name! a fortune! an elegant san his m o ! Mean! ambitious! heart. as-! Thou, Maria—bright, beautiful, and end r—thou wouldst 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 between 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 o n et hus-bnt hus ceremonious bow, and 'd:ro d cyon ng Mrs. Westbury.' recalled he r lection: and scarcely able to reply hus 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 towards 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 eva, son' hor to hor seat, disappointed. sick wen! nnd uniy famtg. In a minute, Gu v : che ruc vered her selt-possession. at mgurles concerning hs det anjmaney that proprity dictated. In sue ai humsolf, she succoeded in swe dogree m drawing him ou'. She was gentie, m uduss, and unobtrusive—and god sense aud proprieiy were conspicuous in a'l -l said. Beside, she looked very pe'ty. Her figure, though rather below the moduam s'ze, was very fine. her hand and foot of unrivalled beauiy. She was dressed wuth great sinplicuy, but good 'aste was betrayed in every thing about her per. son. Sne wore her dress, too. with a pe- c thiar grace, cqually renote from preciston and negl gence. Her features were regu. lar, and her complexion dehcate: but the greatest attraction of her face was the fa cility and truth with which it expressed every feelng of the heart. When Mr. Westbury first entered the parlor, an ob- server tnight bave pronounced her beauti ful: but the bright glow of transient joy that then kindled her cheek. had faded awoy, and left her pale—so pale, that Mr. Westbury inqoired even with some little appearance of interest, 'whether her health was as good as usual?' Her voice, which was alwavs soft and meledious, was even sotter aud sweeter than usnal, as she an swered, 'that It was,' Mr. Westbury at length w n' so far ns to make some inqut. ries relauve to her occupation during his absence. whether she called on the new brude, Ms Cunningham, and other ques- twons ofsumdar consequence. Forthe tine he forgst Mra Edon. was half uncon. clous 'ha' Jalia was his wife—and viewing her only as a comnpanion, he passed an hour or two very comfortably.
One day when Mr. Westbury came to dinner, Julia haaded hum a card of complt ments 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 vou 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 towards herself, to bear it with perfect firmness.

'I should think it very suitable that you pay Mr. and Mrs. Brooks this attention,' Mr. Westbury replied.

The evening visit to Mrs. Brooks at length arrived, and Julia repaired to ber bed chamoer to dress for the occasion. To render herself pleasing in the eyes of her busband was the sole wish of her heart. but how to do this was the question. She would have the world to know his taste. his favorite colors, and other trifles of the like nature—but of these she was complete ly ignorant, and must therefore be guided by her own fancy. 'Simplicity,' thought she—'simplicity is the surest way; for it 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 en circled her waist. Her toilet completed, Julia descended to the parlor, her shaw! and calash in her hand. Mr. Westbury was waiting for her, and just casting his eyes ovcr her person, he said—'If you are ready, Mrs. Westbury, we will go immedi- ately, as it is now late.' Most of the guests were already assembled when they arrived at the mansion open for their reception, and it was not quite easy to get access to the lady of the house, to make their compli ments. This inportant duty, however, was at length happily accomplished, and Mr. Westburv's next effort was to obtain a seat for his wife. She would have prefer- red 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. ed her. and entered into a lively conversa- tion. 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 was in fine spir. Its, and her husband appeared the happiest of the happy. Not that he appeared par. ticularly to enjoy society—but his blooming wife was by his side, and his eves rested on her with looks of the tenderest love— whjle the sound of her voice seemed con. stantly to awaken a thrill of pieasure in bis heart. After conversing with Julia awhile Mrs. Cunningham said—'Do vou prefer sit. ting 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 oway from herself, in listening to the lively rattle of her companion, who, althovgh only a resident of a few weeks in the city, seeined already acquainted with all the gentlemnen, and half the ladies pres- ent. An hour had been passed in this manner, and in partaking of the various refreshments that were provided—to which Julia did but little honor. though this was of no consequence, as Mrs. Cunningham amply made up all deficiencies of this kind; when the sound of music in another room attracted their attention. Julia was ex. tremely 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 en deavor to make their way to the music rooin. After copsiderable detention, they succeeded in accomplishing their object, so far at least as to gct fairly within the door. Considering the number of persons present, and how few there are that do not prefer the mnusic of their own tongues to any oth- er melody. the room was remarkably still —a conpliment deserved by the young la- dy who sat at the piano, who played and sang with great skill and feehing. Julia's attention was soon attracted to her hus- band, 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 fatures.
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 d:d not long remain in doubt. The song finished, all voices were warm in its praise.

'How delightfully Miss Eldon plays! and with what feeling she sings?' exclaim ed Mrs. Conningham. I never listened to a sweeter voice.

The blood rushed to Julia's head, and back again to her heart, !ike a torrent; a vertigo seized her; and all objects before her were, for a moment, an indistinct whirl ing 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 time she was unconscious of all that was passing around her: she could not cven think—she only fe't. Her husband's voice was the first thing that aroused her attention. He was stauding 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 companions; 'her dress is peculiarly becoming.'

'It would be,' said Mr. Westbury, 'were it not for those blue riboands; but I can think no lady looks well wko has any of that odious color about her.'

'd I 'It does finely in its place,' said Ms Westbury, 'that is—in heaven above our heads—but never about the person of a lady.'

Julia wished the 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—ond he cares not —minds not how she is clad whom he calls wife.'
Mr. Westbury and his friend now moved to another par: 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 lead. ing Miss Didon from the room. His head was inclined towarils her: a bright hectic spot was on his cheek, and he was speak- ing to her in the sofiest tone, as they pass- ed 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. 'Oh, that I were away!' thought she, 'that I were at home; that I were—in my grave!' She sat perfectly unconscious of all that was going forward, until Mr. Westbury came to her, inquiring 'wbether she meant to bo the last io take leave?' Julia mechanically arose—mechanically made her parting compliments to Mrs. Brooks—and scarcely knew anything, till she arrived at her own door. Just touch- ing her husband's hand, she sprung from the carringe, and flew to her chamber.— For a wbile she walked the floor in an ago- ny of feeling. The constraint under which she labored, served but to increase the violence of her cmotion, now that she was free to indulge it. 'Oh, why did I attend this party?' at length thought she—'Oh, what have I suffered!' After a while, however, her reason began to operate.— 'What have I seen that I ought not to havo 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 eustain her—and casting aside the mantle which would henceforth be useless to wear. she instantly threw a shawl over her shoulders to con- ceal the unlucky girdle, and although the hour was late, descended to the parlor.— Mr. Westburv was sitting by a table, lean- ing 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 cxpres. sion 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. West- bury; you look as if the fatigues ofthe eyening had been too much for you.'

'Fatigues of the evening—Agonies rath. er!' thought Jalia : but thanking him for his kind advice. she immediately retreated to her chamber.

Until this evening. Mr. Westbury had scarcely seen Miss E. since his mnarriage. He had avoided sceing her, being conscious that she retained the power of his hearc: and his sense of rectitude forbade his in- dulging a passion for one woman, while the husband of another. Mies Eldon suspected this, and felt piqued at his power over him- self. Her heari fluttered with satisfaction whenshe saw him enter Mrs. Brook's draw. ing rooin; 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 compli. ed with a request to sit to a 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 inter- est. She did her best—that best was pre- eminently good—and she soon found that she had fixed the attention of him alone whom she cared to please. After singing one or two modern songs, she began one that she had learned at Mr. Westbury's re- quest, at the period when he used to visit her almost daily. It was Burn's Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon.' and was with bim a great favorite. When Miss Eldon came to these lnes—

Thou mind'st me of departed joys,
Departed never to return—

she raised her eves to his face, and in an instant he forgot everything 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 meian- choly. The song concluded. however, he regained some control over bis feelings, and still kept at a distance from ler: nay—con- quered himnself, so far as to repair to tho drawing-room, to escape from her danger- ous vicinity. Ho 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 nnd tremulous tone, 'Maria. could you sing that song to harrow up my feelings? Time was when

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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 expressed a half-drawn sigh. Not another word was uttered until they had exchanged adieus at the carriage door.

Two or three weeks passed away without the occurrence of any incident calculated to excite 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 calculated in every arrangement. Her table was always spread with great care, and if her husband partook of a 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 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, 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 towards her. Every thing she did was 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.

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 was 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,' Mr. Westbury; 'for myself, I feel that society has claim 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 pleasure of society.'

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,' 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 penseroso 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.'

'Oh, 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 the 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?'

'Oh, 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 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: 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 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 mama 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.

[Concluded next week.]