636 Passages from the Life of Frederick Wellburg. QDec. 



nearly-finished work — whilst he scanned every line and every character 

 of that speaking face ; and in his solitude — when the living form was 

 gone, and only the splendid portraiture of his own art was left to fur- 

 nish matter for his never-tiring fancies — had he not often so dreamed, 

 even when he knew that such a dream was worse than vain ? It was 

 not hope — it was scarcely love — he would have called it only admira- 

 tion ; yet it lent a crimson to his cheek, and a fire to his eye, and a deli- 

 cious frenzy to his heart. 



" Methinks," she resumed, " you are gathering inspiration for your 

 morning's task ; and wisely, fair sir ; for I much question if your oppor- 

 tunities of study extend much further than this night. — Nay, start not, 

 lest your eyes be too dim to catch the last sight of her whom you would 

 immortalize. — Ay, the last, Wellburg. — Can it pain yoii ?" 



The beginning of her speech was uttered in a playful tone ; but the 

 expression of the last few words was soothing and almost sorrowful. 

 Her voice acquired a tremulous earnestness, and there was a sudden 

 wildness in the glance of her dark eyes, and the changeful expression of 

 her pale features, which excited wonder — nay, even fear — along with 

 the admiration due to their beauty. Every sound in the streets beneath 

 — the stir of the frail casement, as it shook with the faint wind — the 

 deepening shadows of the sky, or the flutter of a bird across the light, 

 seemed to strike her with a sudden apprehension ; and, at times, she 

 listened anxiously as some voice came upon her ear, and then died away 

 along the dark streets of the city. She rose at length from her seat, and 

 stood before the painting, upon which the last rays of the dimly-lighted 

 sky were now shed. Her slight frame trembled violently, and a tear 

 started from her pale eyelid as she gazed. — " Ay, for this," she mur- 

 mured, in a voice almost choked with emotion — " for this vanity hath 

 the daughter of a noble race bowed down her soul to poverty — to love — 

 to madness !" She took a purse from the bosom of her robe, and threw 

 it at the feet of the painter. — " Thou art poor, Wellburg ; there is 

 gold — nay, pardon me — the world's price for my father's picture — for 



his daughter's misery ! — And now " She caught a knife from the 



table, tore the unfinished work from its frame, and trampled it passion- 

 ately beneath her feet. The painter sprung towards her, to arrest the 

 work of destruction. " You are mad, lady," he exclaimed, as he 

 stooped to recover the precious object upon which the best efforts of 

 his art had been expended. — " Ay, mad !" she answered — " mad ; thou 

 hast it. For that accursed thing, Adeline di Venuto has stained her 

 noble birth — has stooped to love !" She laid her hand upon his shoul- 

 der, and approaching her lips to his ear, she whispered, " to love thee, 

 Wellburg !" — and, Avith a groan of agony and shame, she sunk down at 

 his feet, and burst into tears. 



The painter raised her from the ground, and would have folded her 

 in his arms ; but she repulsed him. 



" Off — off ! I am not thine ; though fallen, I am not yet thine. I have 

 loved thee — true ; I have gazed upon thee — dreamed — worshipped ; but 

 it is madness ! I have come now to tell thee that thou seest me no 

 more. To-morrow " 



She sunk into his arms, and hid her face in his bosom. A few days 

 afterwards, it was told that the only daughter of the Count di Venuto 

 had taken the vows in the house of St. Agatha of Florence. 



