THE LADY BEATRICE.
A STORY OF VENICE.
BY MRS. MARY V. SPENCER.
It was a golden sunset, and the fair waters of the Brenta, flowed on sparkling with unwonted effulgence, while the western sky glowed, like a city on fire, along the summits of the distant hills, when a young man of noble exterior, but simply attired in the guise of a student, might have been seen wending his way through the rich grounds attached to the summer palace on the Brenta of the Vivaldo family of Venice. From the caution with which the student moved—now concealing himself in the shrubbery if a footstep was heard approaching, and now venturing out, when the footstep had passed, but yet moving only through the most secluded pathways—it was evident that he was there on some secret mission. That his object was not mean or unworthy, however, might have been seen by the most casual glance at his face and mien. His brow, scarcely concealed by his low student's cap, was high and ample; his dark eyes shone with a brilliancy and genius that betokened him of no common order of mind; and the whole character of his face was that of a high-minded, resolute, and intellectual man. Nor was his bearing less marked. His figure was singularly beautiful; graceful, well-knit, and athletic—and the proud step with which he strode on his way might well have become an emperor's son. His progress, however, was soon brought to a close, by his arrival before a small ruined Gothic chapel. Here he stopped, but instead of entering the ruins, he noiselessly secreted himself in the neighboring shrubbery, and watched cautiously to see if the chapel was tenanted.
A slight rustling, as of a female dress, soon convinced him that the person he sought was already in the ruin, and withdrawing from his concealment he advanced toward the chapel; but before he had gone many steps he stopped, as if involuntarily, to gaze on her he sought. Often had he looked on that fair girl before; but now she seemed to him even lovelier than ever. And rare and wonderful indeed was her surpassing beauty! At the moment when her figure met the vision of the young student she was leaning on an old ivy grown tomb of some crusading knight; and chance, as if to heighten her extraordinary loveliness, had placed her in a position where every thing around seemed to be arranged after the most picturesque effect. Far away in the background could be seen the landscape, dotted with woods, villas, gentle hills, and here and there the glittering waters of the Brenta; while over all the declining sun had flung a mantle of glory such as Guido, with almost divine inspiration, has transferred to the canvass, to be at once a reproach and wonder to the world. In the rear, and on the right of the maiden, rose up the shattered shaft of a window, with a portion of the rich tracery work above, all covered with ivy, still hanging from the top. On the other side of the fair girl was a massy cross, rude and grey, yet unshaken by time—a fitting emblem of that religion of which it is a type, and which, in the words of Holy Writ, "endureth forever." But the maiden herself!—she was the all in all of the picture.
The age of the maiden could not have been more than nineteen. Her tresses were of that pale gold so rare under an Italian sky, and her dark soft eye was of the deepest azure tint. She was attired in a simple white dress, with no ornament but a rose placed in her bosom. Her hands, on which she leaned, were folded on a book; but her eyes were cast pensively down, betraying that her thoughts were far away from the storied page.
Her features were exquisitely moulded, and yet her face was full of expression. The snowy forehead; the classic eye-brow; the dark, soul-lit eye; the small, rosy, pouting mouth; and the cheek, that one would have thought chiselled out of marble, but for the delicate rosy tint which pervaded its thousand veins,—these alone would have made their possessor remarkable every where for her beauty; but when to them was superadded her expression of countenance—that looking forth of the inner soul through the features—so holy, sweet, and pensive, so womanly, and yet so angelic, earthly melancholy softened by a heavenly endurance-when all these were superadded, we say, the whole produced on the spectator's mind, an impression of exceeding loveliness—a loveliness such as no sculptor has rivalled, and which even Raphael, that most glorious of painters, has but feebly shadowed forth. The student's eye brightened as he gazed, and he murmured to himself half audibly.
"Sweet girl—she is not all forgetful of me then, as they would have me believe. She even now, perhaps, is thinking of me, and of our mutual difficulties—else why so sad?"
The last words were spoken unconsciously in a louder tone, so loud indeed that they attracted the maiden's attention. She started, looked up, and while the crimson blood dyed her cheek, brow, and even bosom, advanced joyously to meet the student.
"Beatrice—my own sweet one," murmured the lover—for such the student was—"do I again see you after so long an absence, in despite of your unnatural stepfather, I may almost say in despite of Fate itself?"
"Yes, Adanta," said the lady at length, raising her head from his bosom where for a moment it had reposed, and looking smilingly, yet with all a woman's devotion, upon her lover's face, "we meet once more-and oh! how unexpectedly. But when,—how, whence did you
