Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 424 | Page 9

which I think will do you good.'
The cold chill that went to my soul! Her history! It was no diary of facts that I wanted to hear, but only a register of feelings--a register of feelings in which I should find myself the only point whereto the index was set. History! what events deserving that name could have troubled the smooth waters of her life?
I was silent, for I was disturbed; but Julia did not notice either my embarrassment or my silence, and began, in her low, soft voice, to open one of the saddest chapters of life which I had ever heard.
'You do not know that I am going into a convent?' she said; then, without waiting for an answer, she continued: 'This is the last month of my worldly life. In four weeks, I shall have put on the white robe of the novitiate, and in due course I trust to be dead for ever to this earthly life.'
A heavy, thick, choking sensation in my throat, and a burning pain within my eyeballs, warned me to keep silence. My voice would have betrayed me.
'When I was seventeen,' continued Julia, 'I was engaged to my cousin. We had been brought up together from childhood, and we loved each other perfectly. You must not think, because I speak so calmly now, that I have not suffered in the past. It is only by the grace of resignation and of religion, that I have been brought to my present condition of spiritual peace. I am now five-and-twenty--next week I shall be six-and-twenty: that is just nine years since I was first engaged to Laurence. He was not rich enough, and indeed he was far too young, to marry, for he was only a year older than myself; and if he had had the largest possible amount of income, we could certainly not have married for three years. My father never cordially approved of the engagement, though he did not oppose it. Laurence was taken partner into a large concern here, and a heavy weight of business was immediately laid on him. Youthful as he was, he was made the sole and almost irresponsible agent in a house which counted its capital by millions, and through which gold flowed like water. For some time, he went on well--to a marvel well. He was punctual, vigilant, careful; but the responsibility was too much for the poor boy: the praises he received, the flattery and obsequiousness which, for the first time, were lavished on the friendless youth, the wealth at his command, all turned his head. For a long time, we heard vague rumours of irregular conduct; but as he was always the same good, affectionate, respectful, happy Laurence when with us, even my father, who is so strict, and somewhat suspicious, turned a deaf ear to them. I was the earliest to notice a slight change, first in his face, and then in his manners. At last the rumours ceased to be vague, and became definite. Business neglected; fatal habits visible even in the early day; the frightful use of horrible words which once he would have trembled to use; the nights passed at the gaming-table, and the days spent in the society of the worst men on the turf--all these accusations were brought to my father by credible witnesses; and, alas! they were too true to be refuted. My father--Heaven and the holy saints bless his gray head!--kept them from me as long as he could. He forgave him again and again, and used every means that love and reason could employ to bring him back into the way of right; but he could do nothing against the force of such fatal habits as those to which my poor Laurence had now become wedded. With every good intention, and with much strong love for me burning sadly amid the wreck of his virtues, he yet would not refrain: the Evil One had overcome him; he was his prey here and hereafter. O no--not hereafter!' she added, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, 'if prayer, if fasting, patient vigil, incessant striving, may procure him pardon--not for ever his prey! Our engagement was broken off; and this step, necessary as it was, completed his ruin. He died'--Here a strong shudder shook her from head to foot, and I half rose, in alarm. The next instant she was calm.
'Now, you know my history,' continued she. 'It is a tragedy of real life, which you will do well, young painter, to compare with your own!' With a kindly pressure of the hand, and a gentle smile--oh! so sweet, so pure, and heavenly!--Julia Reay left me; while I sat perfectly awed--that is the only word I can use--with the revelation which she had made both of