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 the young
rose--beautifying while veiling the dazzling glory within.'
'Ah! you speak far too poetically for me,' said Julia, smiling. 'If
you will come down to my level for a little while, and will talk to me
rationally, I will tell you my history. I will tell it you as a lesson
for yourself, 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.
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