CHAPTER II.
AN anxious fortnight was passed by Julia Warren,
after this conversation, without bringing any tidings
from her friend. She watched, with feverish
restlessness, each steam-boat that passed the
door on its busy way towards the metropolis, and
met the servant each day at the gate of the lawn
on his return from the city; but it was only to
receive added disappointments. At length Charles
Weston good-naturedly offered his own services,
laughingly declaring, that his luck was never known
to fail. Julia herself had written several long
epistles to Anna, and it was now the proper time
that some of these should be answered,
independently of the thousand promises from her
friend of writing regularly from every post-office
that she might pass on her route to the Gennessee.
But the happy moment had arrived when
disappointments were to cease.
As usual, Julia was waiting with eager impatience
at the gate, her lovely form occasionally gliding
from the shrubbery to catch a glimpse of the
passengers on the highway, when Charles appeared
riding at a full gallop towards the house; his whole
manner announced success, and Julia sprang into
the middle of the road to take the letter which he
extended towards her.
"I knew I should be successful, and it gives me
almost as much pleasure as yourself that I have
been so," said the youth, dismounting from his
horse and opening the gate that his companion
might pass.
"Thank you--thank you, dear Charles," said Julia
kindly. "I never can forget how good you are to me-
-how much you love to oblige not only me, but
every one around. Excuse me now, I have this dear
letter to read another time, I will thank you as I
ought."
So saying, Julia ran into the summer-house, and
fastening its door, gave herself up to the pleasure
of reading a first letter. Notes and short epistles
from her aunt, with divers letters from Anna written
slyly in the school-room and slipped into her lap,
she was already well acquainted with; but of real,
genuine letters, stamped by the post-office,
rumpled by the mail-bags, consecrated by the
steam-boat, this was certainly the first. This,
indeed, was a real letter: rivers rolled, and vast
tracts of country lay, between herself and its writer,
and that writer was a friend selected on the
testimony of innate evidence. It was necessary for
Julia to pause and breathe before she could open
her letter; and by the time this was done, her busy
fancy had clothed both epistle and writer with so
much excellence, that she was prepared to peruse
the contents with a respect bordering on
enthusiasm: every word must be true--every idea
purity itself. That our readers may know how
accurately sixteen and a brilliant fancy had qualified
her to judge, we shall give them the letter entire.
"My dearest love,
"Oh, Julia! here I am, and such a place!--no town,
no churches, no Broadway, nothing that can make
life desirable; and, I may add, no friend--nobody to
see and talk with, but papa and mamma, and a
house full of brothers and sisters. You can't think
how I miss you, every minute more and more; but I
am not without hopes of persuading pa to let me
spend the winter with your aunt in town. I declare
it makes me sick every time I think of her sweet
house in Park-place. If ever I marry, and be sure I
will, it shall be a man who lives in the city, and
next door to my Julia. Oh! how charming that would
be. Each of us to have one of those delightful new
houses, with the new-fashioned basement stories;
we would run in and out at all hours of the day, and
it would be so convenient to lend and borrow each
other's things. I do think there is no pleasure under
heaven equal to that of wearing things that belong
to your friend. Don't you remember how fond I was
of wearing your clothes at school, though you were
not so fond of changing as myself; but that was no
wonder, for pa's stinginess kept me so shabbily
dressed, that I was ashamed to let you be seen in
them. Oh, Julia! I shall never forget those happy
hours; nor you neither. Apropos--I hope you have
not forgot the frock you promised to work for me, to
remember you by. I long for it dreadfully, and hope
you will send it before the river shuts. I suppose
you and Charles Weston do nothing but ride round
among those beautiful villas on the island, and
take comfort. I do envy you your happiness, I can
tell you; for I think any beau better than none,
though Mr. Weston is not to my taste. I am going
to write you six sheets of paper, for there is
nothing that I so delight in as communing with a
friend at a distance, especially situated as I am
without a soul to say a word to, unless it be my
own sisters. Adieu, my ever, ever beloved Julia--be
to me as I am to you, a friend indeed, one tried
and not found wanting. In haste, your
"ANNA.
"Gennessee, June 15, 1816.
"P. S. Don't forget to jog aunt Emmerson's memory
about asking me to Park-place.
"P. S. June 25th. Not having yet sent my letter,
although I am sure you must be dying with anxiety
to hear how we get on, I must add, that we have a
companion here that would delight you--a Mr.
Edward Stanley. What a delightful name! and he is
as delightful as his name: his eye, his nose, his
whole countenance, are perfect. In short, Julia, he
is just such a man as we used to draw in our
conversation at school. He is rich, and brave, and
sensible, and I do nothing but talk to him of you.
He says, he longs to see you; knows you must be
handsome; is sure you are sensible; and feels that
you are good. Oh! he is worth a dozen Charles
Westons. But you may give my compliments to Mr.
Weston, though I don't suppose he ever thinks it
worth his while to remember such a chick as me. I
should like to hear what he says about me, and I
will tell you all Edward Stanley says of you. Once
more, adieu. Your letters got here safe and in due
season. I let Edward take a peep at them."
The first time Julia read this letter she was
certainly disappointed. It contained no descriptions
of the lovely scenery of the west. The moon had
risen and the sun had set on the lakes of the
interior, and Anna had said not one word of either.
But the third and fourth time of reading began to
afford more pleasure, and at the thirteenth perusal
she pronounced it charming. There was evidently
much to be understood; vacuums that the fancy
could easily fill; and, before Julia had left the
summer-house, the letter was extended, in her
imagination, to the promised six sheets. She
walked slowly through the shrubbery towards the
house, musing on the contents of her letter, or
rather what it might be supposed to contain, and
unconsciously repeating to herself in a low tone--
"Young, handsome, rich, and sensible--just as we
used to paint in our conversation. Oh, how
delightful!"
"Delightful indeed, to possess all those fine
qualities; and who is the happy individual that is so
blessed?" asked Charles Weston, who had been
lingering in the walks with an umbrella to shield her
on her return from an approaching shower.
"Oh!" said Julia, starting, "I did not know you were
near me. I have been reading Anna's sweet letter,"
pressing the paper to her bosom as she spoke.
"Doubtless you must be done by this time, Julia,
and," pointing to the clouds, "you had better hasten
to the house. I knew you would be terrified at the
lightning all alone by yourself in that summer-
house, so I came to protect you."
"You are very good, Charles, but does it lighten?"
said Julia in terror, and hastening her retreat to the
dwelling.
"Your letter must have interested you deeply not to
have noticed the thunder--you, who are so timid
and fearful of the flashes."
"Foolishly fearful, you would say, if you were not
afraid of hurting my feelings, I know," said Julia.
"It is a natural dread, and therefore not to be
laughed at," answered Charles mildly.
"Then there is natural fear, but no natural love, Mr.
Charles; now you are finely caught," cried Julia
exultingly.
"Well, be it so. With me fear is very natural, and I
can almost persuade myself love also."
"I hope you are not a coward, Charles Weston. A
cowardly man is very despicable. I could never love
a cowardly man," said Julia, laughing.
"I don't know whether I am what you call a coward,"
said Charles gravely; "but when in danger I am
always afraid."
The words were hardly uttered before a flash of
lightning, followed instantly by a tremendously
heavy clap of thunder, nearly stupified them both.
The suddenness of the shock had, for a moment,
paralyzed the energy of the youth, while Julia was
nearly insensible. Soon recovering himself,
however, Charles drew her after him into the house,
in time to escape a torrent of rain. The storm was
soon over, and their natural fear and surprise were
a source of mirth for Julia. Women are seldom
ashamed of their fears, for their fright is thought to
be feminine end attractive; but men are less easy
under the imputation of terror, as it is thought to
indicate an absence of manly qualities.
"Oh! you will never make a hero, Charles," cried
Julia, laughing heartily. "It is well you chose the
law instead of the army as a profession."
"I don't know," said the youth, a little nettled," I
think I could muster courage to face a bullet."
"But remember, that you shut your eyes, and bent
nearly double at the flash--now you owned all this
yourself."
"At least he was candid, and acknowledged his
infirmities," said Miss Emmerson, who had been
listening.
"I think most men would have done as I did, at so
heavy and so sudden a clap of thunder, and so very
near too," said Charles, striving to conceal the
uneasiness he felt.
"When apprehension for Julia must have increased
your terror," said the aunt kindly.
"Why, no--I rather believe I thought only of myself
at the moment," returned Charles; "but then, Julia,
you must do me the justice to say, that instantly I
thought of the danger of your taking cold and drew
you into the house."
"Oh! you ran from another clap," said Julia, laughing
till her dark eyes flashed with pleasure, and
shaking her head until her glossy hair fell in ringlets
over her shoulders; "you will never make a hero,
Charles."
"Do you know any one who would have behaved
better, Miss Warren?" said the young man angrily.
"Yes--why--I don't know. Yes, I have heard of one,
I think," answered Julia, slightly colouring; "but,
dear Charles, excuse my laughter," she continued,
holding out her hand; "if you are not a hero, you
are very, very, good."
But Charles Weston, at the moment, would rather
be thought a hero than very, very, good; he,
therefore, rose, and affecting a smile, endeavoured
to say something trifling as he retired.
"You have mortified Charles," said Miss Emmerson,
so soon as he was out of hearing.
"I am sure I hope not," said Julia, with a good deal
of anxiety; "he is the last person I would wish to
offend, he is so very kind."
"No young man of twenty is pleased with being
thought no hero," returned the aunt.
"And yet all are not so," said Julia, "I hardly know
what you mean by a hero; if you mean such men as
Washington, Greene, or Warren, all are surely not
so. These were heroes in deeds, but others may be
equally brave."
{Greene = Nathanael Greene (1742-1786),
Revolutionary General; Warren = Joseph Warren
(1741-1775), Revolutionary war hero, killed at the
Battle of Bunker Hill}
"I mean by a hero, a man whose character is
unstained by any low or degenerate vices, or even
feelings," said Julia, with a little more than her
ordinary enthusiasm; "whose courage is as natural
as it is daring; who is above fear, except of doing
wrong; whose person is an index of his mind, and
whose mind is filled with images of glory; that's
what I call a hero, aunt."
"Then he must be handsome as well as valiant,"
said Miss Emmerson, with a smile that was hardly
perceptible.
"Why that is--is--not absolutely material," replied
Julia, blushing; "but one would wish to have him
handsome too."
"Oh! by all means; it would render his virtues more
striking. But I think you intimated that you knew
such a being," returned Miss Emmerson, fixing her
mild eyes on Julia in a manner that denoted great
interest.
"Did I," said Julia, colouring scarlet; "I am sure--I
have forgotten--it must be a mistake, surely, dear
aunt."
"Very possibly I misunderstood you, my dear," said
Miss Emmerson, rising and withdrawing from the
room, in apparent indifference to the subject.
Julia continued musing on the dialogue which had
passed, and soon had recourse to the letter of her
friend, the postscript of which was all, however,
that she thought necessary to read: on this she
dwelt until the periods were lengthened into
paragraphs, each syllable into words, and each
letter into syllables. Anna Miller had furnished the
outlines of a picture, that the imagination of Julia
had completed. The name of Edward Stanley was
repeated internally so often that she thought it the
sweetest name she had ever heard. His eyes, his
nose, his countenance, were avowed to be
handsome; and her fancy soon gave a colour and
form to each. He was sensible; how sensible, her
friend had not expressly stated; but then the
powers of Anna, great as they undoubtedly were,
could not compass the mighty extent of so gigantic
a mind. Brave, too, Anna had called him. This she
must have learnt from acts of desperate courage
that he had performed in the war which had so
recently terminated; or perhaps he might have even
distinguished himself in the presence of Anna, by
some exploit of cool and determined daring. Her
heart burned to know all the particulars, but how
was she to inquire them. Anna, dear, indiscreet girl,
had already shown her letters, and her delicacy
shrunk from the exposure of her curiosity to its
object. After a multitude of expedients had been
adopted and rejected as impracticable, Julia
resorted to the course of committing her inquiries
to paper, most solemnly enjoining her friend never
to expose her weakness to Mr. Stanley. This,
thought Julia, she never could do; it would be
unjust to me, and indelicate in her. So Julia wrote
as follows, first seeking her own apartment, and
carefully locking the door, that she might devote
her whole attention to friendship, and her letter.
"Dearest Anna,
"Your kind letter reach'd me after many an anxious
hour spent in expectation, and repays me ten-fold
for all my uneasiness. Surely, Anna, there is no one
that can write half so agreeably as yourself. I know
there must be a long--long--epistle for me on the
road, containing those descriptions and incidents
you promised to favour me with: how I long to read
them, and to show them to my aunt Margaret, who,
I believe, does not suspect you to be capable of
doing that which I know, or rather feel, you can.
Knowing from any thing but feeling and the innate
evidence of our sympathies, seems to me
something like heresy in friendship. Oh, Anna! how
could you be so cruel as to show my letters to any
one, and that to a gentleman and a stranger? I
never would have served you so, not even to good
Charles Weston, whom I esteem so highly, and who
really wants neither judgment nor good nature,
though he is dreadfully deficient in fancy. Yet
Charles is a most excellent young man, and I gave
him the compliments you desired; he was so much
flattered by your notice that he could make no
reply, though I doubt not he prized the honour as
he ought. We are all very happy here, only for the
absence of my Anna; but so long as miles of weary
roads and endless rivers run between us, perfect
happiness can never reign in the breast of your
Julia. Anna, I conjure you by all the sacred delicacy
that consecrates our friendship, never to show this
letter, unless you would break my heart: you never
will, I am certain, and therefore I will write to my
Anna in the unreserved manner in which we
conversed, when fate, less cruel than at present,
suffered us to live in the sunshine of each other's
smiles. You speak of a certain person in your letter,
whom, for obvious reasons, I will in future call
ANTONIO. You describe him with the partiality of a
friend; but how can I doubt his being worthy of all
that you say, and more--sensible, brave, rich, and
handsome. From his name, I suppose, of course, he
is well connected. What a constellation of
attractions to centre in one man! But you have not
told me all--his age, his family, his profession;
though I presume he has borne arms in the service
of his country, and that his manly breast is already
covered with the scars of honour. Ah! Anna, "he
jests at scars who never felt a wound." But, my
dear creature, you say that he talks of me: what
under the sun can you find to say of such a poor girl
as myself? Though I suppose you have, in the
fondness of affection, described my person to him
already. I wonder if he likes black eyes and fair
complexion. You can't conceive what a bloom the
country has given me; I really begin to look more
like a milk-maid than a lady. Dear, good aunt
Margaret has been quite sick since you left us, and
for two days I was hardly out of her room; this has
put me back a little in colour, or I should be as
ruddy as the morn. But nothing ought ever to tempt
me to neglect my aunt, and I hope nothing ever
will. Be assured that I shall beg her to write you to
spend the winter with us, for I feel already that
without you life is a perfect blank. You indeed must
have something to enliven it with a little in your
new companions, but here is nobody, just now, but
Charles Weston. Yet he is an excellent companion,
and does every thing he can to make us all happy
and comfortable. Heigho! how I do wish I could see
you, my Anna, and spend one sweet half hour in
the dear confidence of mutual sympathy. But lie
quiet, my throbbing heart, the day approaches
when I shall meet my friend again, and more than
receive a reward for all our griefs. Ah! Anna, never
betray your Julia, and write to me FULLY,
CONFIDINGLY, and often.
"Yours, with all the tenderness of friendship that is
founded on mutual sympathy, congenial souls, and
innate evidence of worth.
JULIA."
"P.S. I should like to know whether Antonio has any
scars in his face, and what battles he was in. Only
think, my dear, poor Charles Weston was frightened
by a clap of thunder--but Charles has an excellent
heart."
This letter was written and read, sealed and kissed,
when Miss Emmerson tapped gently at the door of
her niece and begged admission. Julia flew to open
it, and received her aunt with the guileless pleasure
her presence ever gave her. A few words of
introductory matter were exchanged, when, being
both seated at their needles again, Miss Emmerson
asked--
"To whom have you been writing, my love?"
"To my Anna."
"Do you recollect, my child, that in writing to Miss
Miller, you are writing to one out of your own
family, and whose interests are different from
yours?"
"I do not understand you, aunt," cried Julia in
surprise.
"I mean that you should be guarded in your
correspondence--tell no secrets out"--
"Tell no secrets to my Anna!" exclaimed the niece in
a species of horror. "That would be a death-blow to
our friendship indeed."
"Then let it die," said Miss Emmerson, coolly; "the
affection that cannot survive the loss of such an
excitement, had better be suffered to expire as
soon as possible, or it may raise false
expectations."
"Why, dear aunt, in destroying confidence of this
nature, you destroy the great object of friendship.
Who ever beard of a friendship without secrets?"
"I never had a secret in my life," said Miss
Emmerson simply, "and yet I have had many a
friend."
"Well," said Julia, "yours must have been queer
friends; pray, dear aunt, name one or two of them."
"Your mother was my friend," said Miss Emmerson,
with strong emotion, "and I hope her daughter also
is one."
"Me, my beloved aunt!" cried Julia, throwing herself
into the arms of Miss Emmerson and bursting into
tears; "I am more than a friend, I am your child--
your daughter."
"Whatever be the name you give it, Julia, you are
very near and dear to me," said the aunt, tenderly
kissing her charge: "but tell me, my love, did you
ever feel such emotion in your intercourse with Miss
Miller?"
It was some time before Julia could reply; when,
having suppressed the burst of her feelings, she
answered with a smile--
"Oh! that question is not fair. You have brought me
up; nursed me in sickness; are kind and good to
me; and the idea that you should suppose I did not
love you, was dreadful--But you know I do."
"I firmly believe so, my child; it is you that I would
have know what it is that you love: I am satisfied
for myself. I repeat, did Anna Miller ever excite
such emotions?"
"Certainly not: my love to you is natural; but my
friendship for Anna rests on sympathy, and a
perfect knowledge of her character."
"I am glad, however, that you know her so well,
since you are so intimate. What testimony have
you of all this excellence?"
"Innate evidence. I see it--I feel it--Yes, that is the
best testimony--I feel her good qualities. Yes, my
friendship for Anna forms the spring of my
existence; while any accident or evil to you would
afflict me the same as if done to myself--this is
pure nature, you know."
"I know it is pleasing to learn it, come from what it
will," said the aunt, smiling, and rising to withdraw.
