“What have I learned that I knew not before? except,” she added, “a trifling fact concerning my husband's taste.” Julia thought long and deeply; her spirits became calm; she renewed former resolutions; looked to heaven for wisdom to guide, and strength to sustain her—and casting aside the mantle, which would henceforth be useless to her, she instinctively threw a shawl over her shoulders to conceal the unlucky girdle, and, though the hour was late, descended to the parlor. Mr. Westbury was sitting by a table, leaning his head on his hand. It was not easy for Julia to address him on any subject not too exciting to her feelings—and still more difficult perfectly to command her voice, that its tones might be those of ease and cheerfulness; yet she succeeded in doing both. The question she asked, led Mr. Westbury to look up, and he was struck by the death-like paleness on her cheek. Julia could by an effort control her voice; she could in a degree subdue her feelings; but she could not command the expression of her countenance—could not bid the blood visit or recede from her cheeks at her will. She knew not, indeed, that at this time she was pale; her own face was the last thing in her mind. Mr. Westbury had no sooner answered her question, than he added—“You had better retire, Mrs. Westbury. You look as if the fatigues of the evening had been too much for you.” {417} “_Fatigues_ of the evening!—_Agonies_ rather,” thought Julia; but thanking him for his “kind” advice, she immediately retreated to her chamber. Until this evening, Mr. Westbury had scarcely seen Miss Eldon since his marriage. He had avoided seeing her, being conscious that she retained her full power over his heart; and his sense of rectitude forbade his indulging a passion for one woman, while the husband of another. Miss Eldon suspected this, and felt piqued at his power over himself. Her heart fluttered with satisfaction when she saw him enter Mrs. Brooks's drawing-room; and she resolved to ascertain whether her influence over his affections were diminished. She was mortified and chagrined, that even here he kept aloof from her, giving her only a passing bow, as he walked to another part of the room. It was with unusual pleasure that she complied with a request to sit to the piano, for she well knew the power of music—_of her own music_ over his heart. Never before had she touched the keys with so much interest. She did her best—that best was pre-eminently good—and she soon found that she had fixed the attention of him whom alone she cared to please. After singing one or two modern songs, she began one that she had learned at Mr. Westbury's request, at the period when he used to visit her almost daily. It was Burns's “Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,” and was with him a great favorite. When Miss Eldon came to the lines— “Thou mind'st me of departed joys, Departed, never to return”—