Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 424 | Page 8

she was lifted from the carriage by a train of
servants, and borne off the platform.
I looked at the card which she placed in my hand, and read the address
of 'Mrs Arden, Belgrave Square.'
I found my friend waiting for me; and in a few moments was seated
before a blazing fire in a magnificent drawing-room, surrounded with
every comfort that hospitality could offer or luxury invent.
'Here, at least, is happiness,' I thought, as I saw the family assemble in
the drawing-room before dinner. 'Here are beauty, youth, wealth,
position--all that makes life valuable. What concealed skeleton can

there be in this house to frighten away one grace of existence?
None--none! They must be happy; and oh! what a contrast to that poor
lady I met with to-day; and what a painful contrast to myself!'
And all my former melancholy returned like a heavy cloud upon my
brow; and I felt that I stood like some sad ghost in a fairy-land of
beauty, so utterly out of place was my gloom in the midst of all this
gaiety and splendour.
One daughter attracted my attention more than the rest. She was the
eldest, a beautiful girl of about twenty-three, or she might have been
even a few years older. Her face was quite of the Spanish style--dark,
expressive, and tender; and her manners were the softest and most
bewitching I had ever seen. She was peculiarly attractive to an artist,
from the exceeding beauty of feature, as well as from the depth of
expression which distinguished her. I secretly sketched her portrait on
my thumb-nail, and in my own mind I determined to make her the
model for my next grand attempt at historical composition--'the Return
of Columbus.' She was to be the Spanish queen; and I thought of
myself as Ferdinand; for I was not unlike a Spaniard in appearance, and
I was almost as brown.
I remained with my friend a fortnight, studying the midnight effects of
the iron-foundries, and cultivating the acquaintance of Julia. In these
two congenial occupations the time passed like lightning, and I woke as
from a pleasant dream, to the knowledge of the fact, that my visit was
expected to be brought to a close. I had been asked, I remembered, for a
week, and I had doubled my furlough. I hinted at breakfast, that I was
afraid I must leave my kind friends to-morrow, and a general regret was
expressed, but no one asked me to stay longer; so the die was unhappily
cast.
Julia was melancholy. I could not but observe it; and I confess that the
observation caused me more pleasure than pain. Could it be sorrow at
my departure? We had been daily, almost hourly, companions for
fourteen days, and the surmise was not unreasonable. She had always
shewn me particular kindness, and she could not but have seen my
marked preference for her. My heart beat wildly as I gazed on her pale
cheek and drooping eyelid; for though she had been always still and
gentle, I had never seen--certainly I had never noticed--such evident
traces of sorrow, as I saw in her face to-day. Oh, if it were for me, how

I would bless each pang which pained that beautiful heart!--how I
would cherish the tears that fell, as if they had been priceless diamonds
from the mine!--how I would joy in her grief and live in her despair! It
might be that out of evil would come good, and from the deep
desolation of my unsold 'Body' might arise the heavenly blessedness of
such love as this! I was intoxicated with my hopes; and was on the
point of making a public idiot of myself, but happily some slight
remnant of common-sense was left me. However, impatient to learn my
fate, I drew Julia aside; and, placing myself at her feet, while she was
enthroned on a luxurious ottoman, I pretended that I must conclude the
series of lectures on art, and the best methods of colouring, on which I
had been employed with her ever since my visit.
'You seem unhappy to-day, Miss Reay,' I said abruptly, with my voice
trembling like a girl's.
She raised her large eyes languidly. 'Unhappy? no, I am never
unhappy,' she said quietly.
Her voice never sounded so silvery sweet, so pure and harmonious. It
fell like music on the air.
'I have, then, been too much blinded by excess of beauty to have been
able to see correctly,' I answered. 'To me you have appeared always
calm, but never sad; but to-day there is a palpable weight of sorrow on
you, which a child might read. It is in your voice, and on your eyelids,
and round your lips; it is on you like the moss on