With these friends, and these only, I grew up. As my years advanced,
my intimacy with the former increased, and with the latter diminished.
But this diminution of intimacy did not lessen the kindness of her
feelings, or the ordinary devotedness of mine. She was still--when
the perversity of heart made me not blind--the sweet creature to
whom the task of ministering was a pleasure infinitely beyond any
other which I knew. But, as she grew up to girlhood, other prospects
opened upon her eyes, and other purposes upon those of her parents.
At twelve she was carried by maternal vanity into company--sent to
the dancing school--provided with teachers in music and painting,
and made to understand--so far as the actions, looks, and words of
all around could teach--that she was the cynosure of all eyes, to
whom the whole world was bound in deference.
Fortunately, in the case of Julia, the usual effects of maternal
folly and indiscretion did not ensue. Nature interposed to protect
her, and saved her in spite of them all. She was still the meek, modest
child, solicitous of the happiness of all around her--unobtrusive,
unassuming--kind to her inferiors, respectful to superiors, and
courteous to, and considerate of all other persons. Her advancing
years, which rendered these new acquisitions and accomplishments
desirable, if not necessary, at the same time prompted her foolish
mother to another step which betrayed the humiliating regard which
she entertained for me. When I was seventeen, Julia was twelve,
and when neither she nor myself had a solitary thought of love,
the over considerate mother began to think, on this subject, for
us both. The result of her cogitations determined her that it was
no longer fitting that Julia should be my companion. Our rambles in
the woods together were forbidden; and Julia was gravely informed
that I was a poor youth, though her cousin--an orphan whom her
father's charity supported, and whom the public charity schooled.
The poor child artlessly told me all this, in a vain effort to
procure from me an explanation of the mystery (which her mother had
either failed or neglected to explain) by which such circumstances
were made to account for the new commands which had been given her.
Well might she, in her simplicity of heart, wonder why it was, that
because I was poor, she should be familiar with me no longer.
The circumstance opened my eyes to the fact that Julia was a tall
girl, growing fast, already in her teens, and likely, under the
rapidly-maturing influence of our summer sun, to be soon a woman.
But just then--just when she first tasked me to solve the mystery
of her mother's strange requisitions, I did not think of this.
I was too much filled with indignation--the mortified self-esteem
was too actively working in my bosom to suffer me to think of anything
but the indignity with which I was treated. A brief portion of the
dialogue between the child and my self, will give some glimpses of
the blind heart by which I was afflicted.