183].] Passages J'rom the Life of Frederick Wellburg. 637 



***** 



Months passed away ; but that one hour had cast a shadow over the 

 heart of Frederick Wellburg which time could never efface. A tone of 

 sadness was mingled with his enthusiastic thoughts ; and the bright 

 hope of fame, which had formed the master-chord of all his many 

 impulses, was now a dead, or at the least a slumbering feeling. He 

 wrought only by starts, and apparently with no purpose save the embo- 

 diment of some passing thought ; yet even these few and comparatively 

 humble productions served effectually to preserve their author from 

 complete neglect. They had caught an inspiration from the mood of 

 which they were born ; and, like the casual mission of some pent-up 

 flame, they reflected the brightness and the beauty which only slum- 

 bered for a brief season. 



Months passed away ; and to all but him the name of Adeline di 

 Venuto was but a half-remembered dream. One day it was whispered 

 to him that the nun was ill ; and the painter half-smiled as they told him 

 of her approaching death. Could she have been happy ? — No. His 

 heart told him — no ; and imagination pictured the many weary days 

 and sleepless nights haunted by the one memory which even the gloom 

 of a convent had failed to obliterate. She had not forgotten him. She had 

 renounced the world — her high hopes and the advantages of her noble 

 name ; him only, whmn she had scorned, she could not renounce ! 



Another day, and another passed ; and then his dream was realized. 

 A few brief lines, bearing her own signature, were laid upon his table 

 by an unknown hand ; and, except the orphan youth Avho had lately 

 dwelt with him, more as a companion than a pupil, none knew of their 

 delivery or their import. They told him that her hour was at length 

 come, and that " she had not forgotten him." Wellburg read the trem- 

 bling scroll ; and then only the mist which had obscured his better 

 feelings was withdrawn. He shuddered at the consciousness that he 

 had founded even a moment's gratification upon the misery of — his vic- 

 tim. Yes, his victim ; for was she not his ? Had she not stooped from 

 the elevation of her lofty station ? — had she not struggled — fearfully 

 struggled .'' — and had she not even preferred death — for to her a convent 

 was but a step to the grave — death for his love, rather than the world, 

 without the one living object for which alone life was to her aught else 

 than misery } Yes — and she had loved him ; with the consciousness 

 before her of all which she had lost — youth — beauty — wealth ; of all 

 which she had suffered ; with the grave before her, dark, but not darker 

 than that future to which the grave is but a path : with the conscious- 

 ness of all this, she had yet loved — with the deep love which dwells 

 only in the heart of woman — and with her dying lips had blessed even 

 him, the cause of her desolate existence ! Wellburg cursed his cruel 

 satisfaction. His guilt was but in thought ; yet he loathed it — he loathed 

 himself. His imagination brought up to his mind the fair being as she 

 had first crossed his path, arrayed in the bright smile of youthful gaiety ; 

 and then the scene was changed. The clayey features of death seemed 

 to glare upon him with an upward gaze ; and a voice whispered to him 

 that he had trampled upon the grave of her whom he had destroyed. 

 The thought haunted him — day and night it haunted liim ; until his 

 cheek became haggard, and his sunken eye reflected the very midnight 

 darkness of his soul. 



