CHAP. VII. Oh, how this spring of love resembleth Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, Aud by and by a cloud takes all away! SHAKESPEARE. THE sun was slowly sinking in the west, and its last partial beam of expiring glory blushed on the gothic panes of Montranzo, as Adelheida, wrapped in a long veil and flowing mantle, crossed the drawbridge, and proceeded towards the chapel. The path was wild and irregular, now towering o'er gigantic rocks, now gradually declining into dells, and now fringed with aqueous plants, hanging over the rippling stream of the Metremo. The picturesque prospects, prospects, which, in every direction, saluted the eye, and claimed the softened homage of the soul, soothed not her "moping pensiveness:" she walked on, unheedful of the awful grandeur of creation; of the distant roar of the mountain torrent; or the monotonous, but plaintive, hum of the "shard-borne beetle." Solemn and gloomy was the approach to the chapel the wind gently waved the closely-matted branches of the ivy and briony, which hung in light festoons from its Corinthian windows; while the ancient arches exhibited a thousand grotesque and motley figures, requiring only the fairy finger of Fancy to magnify into being. Adelheida paused: a sensation bordering on fear pressed upon her heart, and bleached her features; she looked towards St. Romuald, now scarcely distinguishable from the blue mists of evening, which seemed to roll, in thickening columns, over its sacred spires. "Happy, happy community!" she murmured; "hallowed, blessed asylum, which holds out to the unfortunate A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain!' There no warring passions clash, there no obtruding fears threaten the bosom's peace." Di Rinaldini arose to her imagination; she breathed a heavy sigh, and moved towards the porch softly she pushed open the door; again she paused, for the silence of death seemed to hang around "No pealing organ's animating sound, No choral virgin's captivating voice, Dark and sombre were its distant corners: the extremity of the nave, marked by the waving banners of hostile triumph, closed in a low arcade, which the eye now sought in vain to penetrate. On each side were shrines and monuments of poished marble, emblazoning the date and virtues virtues of the dust they covered, and conveying to after ages man's impotent presumption. Adelheida started, as the light echo of her footsteps reverberated on the tesselated pavement: and then, smiling at her timid fears, with renovated courage, traversed the silent resting-place of her forefathers. "What can I apprehend?" she mentally demanded, approaching the establature of her mother's monument; "in life thou wert my protectress, sweet saint, and in death will be my guardian." But not the sanctuary of religion could exclude the heart's soft wanderings; Adelheida breathed the name of Huberto, and every other idea vanished, like clouds before the refulgent luminary of day she saw herself not the object of his aversion, but of his love; not slighted, shunned, but acknowledged, adored. Thus, "Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, Adorns and cheers the way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray." But suddenly her delirium ceased; suddenly, like the dissolving visions of a blissful dream, it vanished, and soothed no more: she saw Di Rinaldini flying from Montranzo; she saw her future life doomed to despair, her bosom rifled of its peace, her heart impressed with a being who heeded not her wretchedness; she saw her aged father mourning over the grave of his expectations; she saw the bright ray of bliss excluded, shut out for ever; she clasped her hands, she shuddered at the picture of hopeless love fancy had sketched. "I will fly to the altar of my God," she ejacu lated, as Huberto's intended plan of desertion pressed, like a sickening spasm, on her heart; "yes, at Fossombrone, in the convent of Corpus Domini, I will take the irrevocable vow; I will fly from ingratitude and scorn, from a world of sorrow and of trial; I will offer up to Heaven the homage of a contrite soul; I will forget Di Rinaldini, forget my father, forget myself. Mother of God! can it be possible? 5 can |