CHAPTER IV.
ALTHOUGH Julia spent most of her time with her
aunt and cousin, opportunities for meditation were
not wanting: in the retirement of her closet she
perused and re-perused the frequent letters of her
friend. The modesty of Julia, or rather shame,
would have prevented her from making Anna
acquainted with all her feelings, but it would have
been treason to her friendship not to have poured
out a little of her soul at the feet of Miss Miller.
Accordingly, in her letters, Julia did not avoid the
name of Antonio. She mentioned it often, but with
womanly delicacy, if not with discretion. The seeds
of constant association had, unknown to herself,
taken deep root, and it was not in the power of
Anna Miller to eradicate impressions which had
been fastened by the example of the aunt, and
cherished by the society of her cousin. Although
deluded, weak, and even indiscreet, Julia was not
indelicate. Yet enough escaped her to have given
any experienced eye an insight into the condition of
her mind, had Anna chosen to have exposed her
letters to any one. The danger of such a
correspondence should alone deter any prudent
female from its indulgence. Society has branded the
man with scorn who dares abuse the confidence of
a woman in this manner; and the dread of the
indignation of his associates makes it an offence
which is rarely committed by the other sex: but
there is no such obligation imposed on women, and
that frequently passes for a joke which harrows
every feeling that is dear to the female breast, and
violates all that is delicate and sensitive in our
nature. Surely, where it is necessary from any
adventitious circumstances to lay the heart open in
this manner, it should only be done to those whose
characters are connected with our own, and who
feel ridicule inflicted on us, as disgrace heaped on
themselves. A peculiar evil of these confidential
friendships is, that they are most liable to occur,
when, from their youth, their victims are the least
guarded; and, at the same time, from inconstancy,
the most liable to change. Happily, however, for
Julia's peace of mind, she foresaw no such dangers
from her intimacy with Anna, and letter and answer
passed between them, at short intervals, during the
remainder of the summer. We shall give but one
more specimen of each, as they have strong
resemblance to one another--we select two that
were written late in August.
"My own and beloved Julia,
"Your letters are the only consolation that my
anxious heart can know in the dreary solitude of
this place. Oh! my friend, how would your tender
heart bleed did you but know the least of my
sufferings; but they are all requited by the
delightful anticipations of Park-Place. I hope your
dear aunt has not found it necessary to lay down
her carriage in the change of the times: write me in
your next about it. Antonio has been here again,
and he solicited an audience with me in private--of
course I granted it, for friendship hallows all that is
done under its mantle. It was a moonlight night--
mild Luna shedding a balmy light on surrounding
objects, and, if possible, rendering my heart more
sensitive than ever. One solitary glimmering star
showed by its paly quiverings the impress of
evening, while not a cloud obscured the vast
firmament of heaven. On such an evening Antonio
could do nothing but converse of my absent friend;
he dwelt on the indescribable grace of your person,
the lustre of your eye, and the vermilion of your
lips, until exhausted language could furnish no
more epithets of rapture: then the transition to
your mind was natural and easy; and it was while
listening to his honied accents that I thought my
Julia herself was talking.
"Soft as the dews from heaven descend, his gentle
accents fell."
Ah, Julia! nothing but a strong pre-possession, and
my friendship for you, could remove the danger of
such a scene. Yes! friend of my heart, I must
acknowledge my weakness. There is a youth in
New-York, who has long been master of my too
sensitive heart, and without him life will be a
burthen. Cruel fate divides us now, but when
invited by your aunt to Park-Place, Oh, rapture
unutterable! I shall be near my Regulus. This,
surely, is all that can be wanting to stimulate my
Julia to get the invitation from her aunt. Antonio
says that if I go to the city this fall, he will hover
near me on the road to guard the friend of Julia;
and that he will eagerly avail himself of my
presence to seek her society. I am called from my
delightful occupation by one of my troublesome
sisters, who wishes me to assist her in some trifle
or other. Make my most profound respects to your
dear, good aunt, and believe me your own true
friend,
ANNA."
{Regulus = prince}
At length Julia thought she had made the discovery
of Anna's reason for her evident desire to spend the
winter in town--like herself, her friend had become
the victim of the soft passion, and from that
moment Julia determined that Katherine Emmerson
must seek another residence, in order that Anna
might breathe love's atmosphere. How much a
desire to see Antonio governed this decision, we
cannot say, but we are certain that, if in the least,
Julia was herself ignorant of the power. With her, it
seemed to be the result of pure, disinterested, and
confiding friendship. In answer, our heroine wrote
as follows:
"My beloved Anna,
"Your kind, consolatory letters are certainly the
solace of my life. Ah! Anna, I have long thought
that some important secret lay heavy at your heart.
The incoherency of your letters, and certain things
too trifling to mention, had made me suspect that
some unusual calamity had befallen you. You do
not mention who Regulus is. I am burning with
curiosity to know, although I doubt not but he is
every way worthy of your choice.
"I have in vain run over in my mind every young
man that we know, but not one of them that I can
find has any of the qualities of a hero. Do relieve
my curiosity in your next, and I may have it in my
power to write you something of his movements.
Oh! Anna, why will you dwell on the name of
Antonio--I am sure I ought not to listen as I do to
what he says--and when we meet, I am afraid that
he will not find all the attractions which your too
partial friendship has portrayed. If he should be
thus disappointed, Oh! Anna--Anna--what would
become of your friend--But I will not dwell an the
horrid idea. Charles Weston is yet here, and
Katherine Emmerson too; so that but for the
thoughts of my absent Anna, and perhaps a little
uneasiness on the subject of Antonio, I might be
perfectly happy. You know how good and friendly
Katherine is, and really Charles does all in his
power to please. If he were only a little more
heroical, he would be a charming young man: for
although he is not very handsome, I don't think you
notice it in the least when you are intimate with
him. Poor Charles, he was terribly mortified about
the flash of lightning--but then all are not brave
alike. Adieu, my Anna--and if you do converse more
with a certain person about, you know whom, let it
be with discretion, or you may raise expectations
she will not equal. Your own JULIA."
"P. S. I had almost forgotten to say that aunt has
promised me that I can ask you to stay with us, if,
after the 20th September, I wish it, as you may be
sure that I will. Aunt keeps her carriage yet, and I
hope will never want it in her old age."
About the time this letter was written, Miss
Emmerson made both of her nieces acquainted with
the promised project that was to give them the
agreeable surprise:--she had long contemplated
going to see "the Falls," and she now intended
putting her plan into execution. Katherine was
herself pressed to make one of the party, but the
young lady, at the same time she owned her wish
to see this far-famed cataract, declined the offer
firmly, but gratefully, on account of her desire to
spend the remaining time with her father and
mother, before they went to the south. Charles
Weston looked from Katherine to Julia during this
dialogue, and for an instant was at a loss to know
which he thought the handsomest of the cousins.
But Julia entered into the feelings of the others so
quickly, and so gracefully offered to give up the
journey, in order that Miss Emmerson might
continue with her brother, that, aided by her
superior beauty, she triumphed. It was evident,
that consideration for her niece was a strong
inducement with the aunt for making the journey,
and the contest became as disinterested as it was
pleasing to the auditors. But the authority of Miss
Emmerson prevailed, and Charles was instantly
enlisted as their escort for the journey. Julia never
looked more beautiful or amiable than during this
short controversy. It had been mentioned by the
aunt that she should take the house of Mr. Miller in
her road, and the information excited an emotion
that brought all her lustre to her eyes, and bloom
to her cheeks. Charles thought it was a burst of
generous friendship, and admired the self-denial
with which she urged her aunt to relinquish the
idea. But Julia was constitutionally generous, and it
was the excess of the quality that made her
enthusiastic and visionary. If she did not deserve
all of Charles's admiration, she was entitled to no
small share of it. As soon as the question was
determined in favour of going, Miss Emmerson and
Katherine withdrew, leaving Charles alone with the
heroine of our tale. Under the age of five-and-
twenty, men commonly act at the instigation of
sudden impulse, and young Weston was not yet
twenty-one. He had long admired Julia for her
beauty and good feelings; he did not see one half
of her folly, and he knew all of her worth; her
enthusiastic friendship for Miss Miller was
forgotten; even her mirth at his own want of
heroism had at the moment escaped his memory--
and the power of the young lady over him was
never greater.
"How admirable in you, Julia," he said, seating
himself by her side, "to urge what was against your
own wishes, in order to oblige your aunt!"
"Do you think so, Charles?" said the other simply;
"but you see I urged it feebly, for I did not prevail."
"No, for you mistook your aunt's wishes, it seems:
she desires to go--but then all the loveliness of the
act was yours."
At the word loveliness, Julia raised her eyes to his
face with a slight blush--it was new language for
Charles Weston to use, and it was just suited to
her feelings. After a moment's pause. however, she
replied--
"You use strong language, cousin Charles, such as
is unusual for you."
"Julia, although I may not often have expressed it,
I have long thought you to be very lovely!"
exclaimed the young man, borne away with his
ardour at the moment.
"Upon my word, Charles, you improve," said Julia,
blushing yet more deeply, and, if possible, looking
still handsomer than before.
"Julia--Miss Warren--you tear my secret from me
before its time--I love you, Julia, and would wish to
make you my wife."
This was certainly very plain English, nor did Julia
misunderstand a syllable of what he said--but it
was entirely new and unexpected to her; she had
lived with Charles Weston with the confidence of a
kinswoman, but had never dreamt of him as a lover.
Indeed, she saw nothing in him that looked like a
being to excite or to entertain such a passion; and
although from the moment of his declaration she
began insensibly to think differently of him, nothing
was farther from her mind than to return his offered
affection. But then the opportunity of making a
sacrifice to her secret love was glorious, and her
frankness forbade her to conceal the truth. Indeed,
what better way was there to destroy the unhappy
passion of Charles, than to convince him of its
hopelessness? These thoughts flashed through her
mind with the rapidity of lightning--and trembling
with the agitation and novelty of her situation, she
answered in a low voice--
"That, Charles, can never be."
"Why never, Julia?" cried the youth, giving way at
once to his long-suppressed feelings--"why never?
Try me, prove me! there is nothing I will not do to
gain your love."
Oh! how seductive to a female ear is the first
declaration of an attachment, especially when
urged by youth and merit!--it assails her heart in
the most vulnerable part, and if it be not fortified
unusually well, seldom fails of success. Happily for
Julia, the image of Antonio presented itself to save
her from infidelity to her old attachment, and she
replied--
"You are kind and good, Charles, and I esteem you
highly--but ask no more, I beg of you."
"Why, if you grant me this, why forbid me to hope
for more?" said the youth eagerly, and looking
really handsome.
Julia hesitated a moment, and let her dark eyes fall
before his ardent gaze, at a loss what to say--but
the face of Apollo in the imperial uniform
interposed to save her.
"I owe it to your candour, Mr. Weston, to own my
weakness--" she said, and hesitated.
"Go on, Julia--my Julia," said Charles, in an
unusually soft voice; "kill me at once, or bid me
live!"
Again Julia paused, and again she looked on her
companion with kinder eyes than usual--when she
felt the picture which lay next her heart, and
proceeded--
"Yes, Mr. Weston, this heart, this foolish, weak
heart is no longer my own."
"How!" exclaimed Charles, in astonishment, "and
have I then a rival, and a successful one too?"
"You have," said Julia, burying her face in her hands
to conceal her blushes.--"But, Mr. Weston, on your
generosity I depend for secrecy--be as generous as
myself."
"Yes--yes--I will conceal my misery from others,"
cried Charles, springing on his feet and rushing
from the room; "would to God I could conceal it
from myself!"
Julia was sensibly touched with his distress, and for
an instant there was some regret mingled with self-
satisfaction at her own candour--but then the
delightful reflection soon presented itself of the
gratitude of Antonio when he learnt her generous
conduct, and her self-denial in favour of a man
whom she had as yet never seen.--At the same
time she was resolutely determined never to
mention the occurrence herself--not even to her
Anna.
Miss Emmerson was enabled to discover some
secret uneasiness between Charles and Julia,
although she was by no means able to penetrate
the secret. The good aunt had long anxiously
wished for just such a declaration as had been
made to her niece, and it was one of the last of her
apprehensions that it would not have been
favourably received. Of simple and plain habits
herself, Miss Emmerson was but little versed in the
human heart; she thought that Julia was evidently
happy and pleased with her young kinsman, and
she considered him in every respect a most eligible
connexion for her charge: their joint fortunes would
make an ample estate, and they were alike
affectionate and good-tempered--what more could
be wanting? Nothing however passed in the future
intercourse of the young couple to betray their
secrets, and Miss Emmerson soon forgot her
surmises. Charles was much hurt at Julia's avowal,
and had in vain puzzled his brains to discover who
his rival could be. No young man that was in the
least (so he thought) suitable to his mistress,
visited her, and he gave up his conjectures in
despair of discovering this unknown lover, until
accident or design should draw him into notice.
Little did he suspect the truth. On the other hand,
Julia spent her secret hours in the delightful
consciousness of having now done something that
rendered her worthy of Antonio, with occasional
regret that she was compelled by delicacy and love
to refuse Charles so hastily as she had done.
Very soon after this embarrassing explanation, Julia
received a letter from her friend that was in no way
distinguishable from the rest, except that it
contained the real name of Regulus, which she
declared to be Henry Frederick St. Albans. If Charles
was at a loss to discover Julia's hidden love, Julia
herself was equally uncertain how to know who this
Mr. St. Albans was. After a vast deal of musing, she
remembered that Anna was absent from school
without leave one evening, and had returned alone
with a young man who was unknown to the
mistress. This incident was said, by some, to have
completed her education rather within the usual
time. Julia had herself thought her friend indiscreet,
but on the whole, hardly treated--and they left the
school together. This must have been St. Albans,
and Anna stood fully exculpated in her eyes. The
letter also announced the flattering fact, that
Antonio had already left the country, ordering his
servants and horses home, and that he had gone to
New-York with the intention of hovering around
Julia, in a mask, that she could not possibly
remove, during the dangers of their expected
journey. Anna acknowledged that she had betrayed
Antonio's secret, but pleaded her duty to her friend
in justification. She did not think that Julia would
be able to penetrate his disguise, as he had
declared his intentions so to conceal himself, by
paint and artifice, as to be able to escape
detection. Here was a new source of pleasure to our
heroine: Antonio was already on the wing for the
city, perhaps arrived--nay, might have seen her,
might even now be within a short distance of the
summer-house where she was sitting at the time,
and watching her movements. As this idea
suggested itself, Julia started, and unconsciously
arranging her hair, by bringing forward a neglected
curl, moved with trembling steps towards the
dwelling. At each turn of the walk our heroine threw
a timid eye around in quest of an unknown figure,
and more than once fancied she saw the face of the
god of music peering at her from the friendly covert
of her aunt's shrubbery--and twice she mistook the
light green of a neighbouring cornfield, waving in
the wind, for the coat of Antonio. Julia had so long
associated the idea of her hero with the image in
her bosom, that she had given it perfect identity;
but, on more mature reflection, she was convinced
of her error: he would come disguised, Anna had
told her, and had ordered his servants home; where
that home was, Julia was left in ignorance--but she
fervently hoped, not far removed from her beloved
aunt. The idea of a separation from this
affectionate relative, who had proved a mother to
her in her infancy, gave great pain to her best
feelings; and Julia again internally prayed that the
residence of Antonio might not be far distant.--
What the disguise of her lover would be, Julia could
not imagine--probably, that of a wandering harper:
but then she remembered that there were no
harpers in America, and the very singularity might
betray his secret. Music is the "food of love," and
Julia fancied for a moment that Antonio might
appear as an itinerant organist--but it was only for
a moment; for as soon as she figured to herself the
Apollo form, bending under the awkward load of a
music-grinder, she turned in disgust from the
picture. His taste, thought Julia will protect me
from such a sight--she might have added, his
convenience too. Various disguises presented
themselves to our heroine, until, on a view of the
whole subject, she concluded that Antonio would
not appear as a musician at all, but in some
capacity in which he might continue unsuspected,
near her person, and execute his project of
shielding her from the dangers of travelling. It was
then only as a servant that he could appear, and,
after mature reflection, Julia confidently expected
to see him in the character of a coachman.
Willing to spare her own horses, Miss Emmerson
had already sent to the city for the keeper of a
livery-stable, to come out and contract with her for
a travelling carriage, to convey her to the Falls of
Niagara. The man came, and it is no wonder that
Julia, under her impressions, chose to be present at
the conversation.
"Well then," said Miss Emmerson to the man, "I will
pay you your price, but you must furnish me with
good horses to meet me at Albany--remember that
I take all the useless expense between the two
cities, that I may know whom it is I deal with."
"Miss Emmerson ought to know me pretty well by
this time," said the man; "I have driven her
enough, I think."
"And a driver," continued the lady, musing, "who am
I to have for a driver?" Here Julia became all
attention, trembling and blushing with
apprehension.
"Oh, a driver!" cried the horse-dealer; "I have got
you an excellent driver, one of the first chop in the
city."
{first chop = first rank, highest quality}
Although these were not the terms that our heroine
would have used herself in speaking of this
personage, yet she thought they plainly indicated
his superiority, and she waited in feverish suspense
to hear more.
"He must be steady, and civil, and sober, and
expert, and tender-hearted," said Miss Emmerson,
who thought of any thing but a hero in disguise.
"Yes--yes--yes--yes--yes," replied the stable-
keeper, nodding his head and speaking at each
requisite, "he is all that, I can engage to Miss
Emmerson."
"And his eyesight must be good," continued the
lady, deeply intent on providing well for her
journey; "we may ride late in the evening, and it is
particularly requisite that he have good eyes."
"Yes--yes, ma'am," said the man, in a little
embarrassment that did not escape Julia; "he has
as good an eye as any man in America."
"Of what age is he?" asked Miss Emmerson.
"About fifty," replied the man, thinking years would
he a recommendation.
"Fifty!" exclaimed Julia, in a tone of
disappointment.
"'Tis too old," said Miss Emmerson; "he should he
able to undergo fatigue."
"Well, I may be mistaken--Oh, he can't be more
than forty, or thirty," continued the man, watching
the countenance of Julia; "he is a man that looks
much older than he is."
"Is he strong and active?"
"I guess he is--he's as strong as an ox, and active
as a cat," said the other, determined he should
pass.
"Well, then," said the aunt, in her satisfied way,
"let every thing be ready for us in Albany by next
Tuesday. We shall leave home on Monday."
The man withdrew.
Julia had heard enough--for ox she had substituted
Hercules, and for cat, she read the feathered
Mercury.
