Julia (Chapter_4)

30 Chapter Fourth

The next morning when D'Aubigne entered the breakfast room finding no one there, he took up a news-paper to read until Julia should come down. Some time passed; at last the servant, having arranged the breakfast, placed his seat at table, told him that his mistress had a headache and begged to be excused. Henry and Rosa joined him. When the table was cleaned, Henry filled his satchel with his books, & shaking hands with his uncle, as he called D'Aubigne went off cheerily to school. Rosa asked if she should run & get a little book to read her lesson to him; he assented, & away she flew. D'Aubigne walked the room, still thinking of what had occupied his wakinful hours through the night; the agitation Julia had betrayed on seeing the superscription of the letter, this agitation, followed by indisposition this morning - what could occasion it. Were the communication from her husband, why hastily conceal the letter, as she had done, on the approach of D'Aubigne? Was her husband ill? How long was he to be absent? Where was he gone? All these questions he would feign have asked Julia, but since the day of his arrival, when she had told him her husband had gone on a journey, she had so evidently awarded the subject, was so complete -ly silent as to every thing that concerned her , that D'Aubigne equally shunned a topic which seemed to give her pain.

Mystery enveloped not only Julia's conduct, but charac-ter- he could not reconcile her animation & gaiety in company, her sweetness & tenderness towards him, her excessive fondness for her children, her general kindness, amenity & cheerfulness; with idea of a negligent & indifferent wife - or with an unhappy & abandoned one. And yet want of affection, -or wounded affection must be he thought the cause of the repugnance she discovered to speak of her husband. But that letter? - From whom was that letter? He threw himself on a settee near an open window and while one would have supposed he was intently watching the waving branches of a willow tree that grew near, so immaneably were his eyes fixed upon it. He was thinking of scenes and of days far, far, remote from

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from the present scene, or the present hour. --

Rosa running in, let the door slip from her hand, & it shut with such violence, as completely to rouse d'Aubigne from his reverys, he started, & gently reproved her, bidding her remember her mama had a head-ache & if she had fallen asleep would be awakened by any noise.

"Why Mama is not asleep", said the little girl, "she has gone to take a walk."

"You must be mistaken."

"No indeed I am not," she replied, "I sleep in her room & I saw her get up & put on her hat & shawl & go out to walk before breakfast."

d'Aubigne sighed.- "Why what makes you look so sorry uncle? come", and she clambering up on his knee, I will read you a pretty, very pretty story & that will make you merry."

D'Aubigne without attending to what the child said - suddenly enquired, "Where is your Papa, Rosa? "I don't know," said she slowly [waging?] her head, this motion & the peculiar tone of her voice, seemed to imply more than met the ear.

"And when will he come home?" "I don't know," said Rosa, with the same tone.

"And will you not be glad when he returns?"-

Rosa shook her head in the negative.

"Will you be sorry then?"

Rosa nodded in the affirmative.

"You do not love your papa then", continued d'Aubigne-

The child who had by this time thrown aside her book, & was kneeling on d'Aubrignes lap, had one arm round his neck, while with the other hand, she was patting his face, parting his hair, & stoking his eyebrows, with many other infantine & endearing little tricks. "You cannot love your papa then"?- repeated he- "She hid her little face on his shoulder, saying, "I can't help it, but indeed uncle, I cannot."

"But that is very naughty - is it not?"

"Oh yes," said the little creature crying

on the virginia shore, on a high hill, was Arlington a miniature copy of the Capitol. Farther down the river, the Anacosta was seen pouring its tributary stream into the mighty Potomack, & on the point, of a long neck of land which divided these streams, was the arsenal & still farther, on the roofs of the town of Alexandria, glistened in the sun. These were a few of the objects which fixed the admiring gaze of d'aubegne-He could have stood & contemplated this wide & varied scene for hours, but he recollected his absense might be wondered at, & turned to look for Julia's dwelling.- He { discovered ? }it below the eminence on which he stood, nearer to the bank of Rock-creek & knew it by the tall cedum which grew in irregular clumps in the garden.

Thither he turned his steps, & as he entered the last gate, Rosa discovered him from a window, & flew to meet him"You promised me not to stay long," she exclaimed, seizing his hand & drawing him forwards. "Come, mama is sitting with me in the school room & she says I have been thinking more of you than my books."He fell awed, as Rosa led, & found Julia sitting by the table on which were books, pens {?}-She stretched out her hand, & affectionately reproached him for playing truant. "I presumed," said he, with more coldness than he had ever before spoken to her, That your head-ache would confine you all the morning to chamber." Julia blushed deeply, & without daring to look up, timidly answered, that she had taken a walk, which had entirely relieved her head. D'Aubigne threw his eye round the room- how unlike was it to all his preconceived ideas of a school room - It was rather a tastefully dispersed library. The walls were painted of a pale green & hung with large coloured maps. - In the recesses each side of the chimney were mahogany cases filled with elegantly bound books - On two elevated stands were the terestial & celestial globes. A long table stood in the middle of the room, covered with a green cloth, on which were portfolios of drawings - materials for writing & painting & scattered books - with vases of flowers - the windows were filled with green house plants & formed a verdant scene, on one side was a sopher- on the other a piano. It was open & Julia had just been giving her little girl a lesson- Every object breathed of purity & maternal love- And d'Aubigne's heart beat lighter--

Perplexed & anxious he knew not what to think, but he did not hesitate on determining secretly to watch, & if possible avert the danger with which she was threatened. Determined, if possible to win her confidence & if he should discover error to have grown up in that once, pure mind, to endeavour to anticipate it, with a resolute vigorous but tender hand. - Calmed by this resolution, he rose, & climbing to the summit of the bank, he looked round for a path which would lead him back by a more circuitous way, for he wishes every trace of his recent emotion should be effaced, before he met Julia. The path he entered, wound its devious way through a noble wood. The undergrowth had been cleared away & the ground was covered with a soft, short grape.- The undulating surface, now sinking into hollows, new swelling into hillocks, limited his view & deceived him as to the length of his way, & he began to think he had lost himself, when in ascending an enimence, he found he was on the verge of a public road; & one of the most beautiful landscapes his eye had ever rested on, burst upon his view. Immediately, before him were many large & handsome houses, surrounded with fine gardens & beautifully variegated grounds, where groves of forest trees mingled with foreign growth & every vanity of flowering shrub. As the hill desended, the houses thickened & spread out in regular streets to the waters edge; but the numerous gardens & trees mixed among the dwellings, destroyed the monotony of a regularly built town. Beyond, spread the broad Potomack, reflecting in its clear waves the beautiful banks by which it was bounded.- Points of land from the opposite shores, stretched almost across the river, & some times gave it the appearance of a lake. A little fairy Island lay embosomed in its waters, at a short distance from the town; Through its tall trees, a white building could be seen at the fartherend, that from its sequestened situation, d'Aubigne thought must be the very abode of peace.- On the left bank of the river, extended the high grounds of Washington, & its scattered buildings, among which more preeminent the Capitol & its lofty cupola- Directly opposite

He flung himself on this greene & for some moments gave way to a burst of impassioned grief.-"Julia!-Julia!"-he exclaimed from time to time - "Oh Julia is it possible." But he did not-he could not breathe aloud, the possibility, which presented itself to his mindwhich tore his heart.- The tears, which fell in torrents on his bosom, relieved the pressure , which had almost suffocated him. The solitude & stillness of the scene- the hum of insects, the sighing of the wind-the murmur of the stream, were the only sounds which broke this stillness & they soothed the perturbation of his soul.

As his tranquillity returned, he felt able to compare his own observations, with what he had heard from the artless Rosa D'Aubigne loved Julia with all the fondness, but with all the punity of a brother. Since her birth she had been the dearest ofject of his affections; he had carried her in his arms, had rocked her cradle, had guided her infant steps-developed her first ideas. He had been her earliest instructor-her constant companion & her youthful protector. By how many ties was she bound to his heart! this even stronger than those of nature. Could he then see her unhappy so not he unhappy too. Could be believe her in danger- & in such a danger & not feel alarmed & wretched? Was it possible that the reproofs of Mrs Edward were merited- that the self accusations he had heard from Julia, were just?- How was this possible, when he had seen her in society, so admired so caressed. When he found her surrounded with persons of the first distinctionnot only in rank, but virtues & talents. How was it possible, when he saw her so happy, so gay- so engrossed with her children- so fond of intellectual employment?--No, no, it was impossible that Julia could be guilty of any serious error- of indiscretion she might be-but exposed as she was exposed to the seductions of the world; the spoiled child of fortuned of Nature, with a composition so gay- a heart so ardent- an imagination so exalted, would it be wonderful, would it be inexcusable, if she sometimes deviated from the strict line of propriety? And her husband tooWhat was he ? where was he ? Until that morning D'Aubigne had imagined he was gone on a distant journey, had attributed the occasional sadness which he had discovered under Julia's gaiety- to his absence caused perhaps by some painful embarrassment.