For this woman was one of those fine specimens of Spanish blood, of a luxuriant and vigorous character. What fierce transports of consuming and unappeasable jealousy in those expressive features, not the less determined for their elegance! and that hair, so abundant and silken those eyebrows, so bright, so beautifully arched! and that light almost imperceptible down which gave brilliancy to the pure coral of a pouting lip! O, Rita Rita! thou hast scarce numbered eight and twenty sum.mers. 'Tis the warm sun of Havannah that has thus gilded thy lovely and voluptuous form. Rita! ought we to pity or envy him for whom love hath brought thee here followed by a single esquire ? You visit an old tower in ruins,-you, a duchess,-you, whose very mnenials are of gentle birth,-you, proud offspring and widow of the grandees of Spain,-you, whose ancestors, descendants of a royal family, have rightful claims to the crown of Castile The slight movement which Rita made aroused the handsome recluse from his meditation as from a dream. Raising his head, he perceived the duchess resting upon the arm of his chair, and gazing upon him with idolizing interest. ""Tis thou, then," cried he, with an expression of tender love. "Thou wast there." "Yes, 'tis I, Henry; 'tis I, thy tempter," she replied, smiling as she stooped to kiss his brow. 66 Hush, hush," said the young man, moving his hand gently to repress her warmth, whilst a slight cloud passed rapidly over his coun tenance. 66 'Child," exclaimed the duchess, throwing her arms around his neck, ever scrupulous as a tender inaid. Come, I would convince thee, and soothe thy timid conscience;" and Rita, seated upon his knee, rested her hand on Henry's shoulder. He sat, thoughtful and absorbed; his hand was cold and icy in the fevered grasp of the duchess. "Henry," cried she impatiently, "is it thus thou receivest me? Thou dost no longer love me." " O, Rita," exclaimed Henry, pointing to her miniature," how could I fail of loving thee? Hast thou not changed my life; and this new life that thou hast given me is it not all love for thee? To love thee, to call thee mine, is now my sole hope of life." "And thou hast no longer a feeling of regret, my Henry," said the duchess, as she parted playfully his graceful hair. "Yes, Rita, yes; when thou art gone I feel the stingings of a keen remorse, for I have broken a holy vow; and now, perchance, I shall abjure the obscure and pious life for which I feel that I was born. Reared far from the world, my passions, my feelings, my ideas, all slumbered within me. I had then but one single love, Rita, and that was heaven. My faith got strength in solitude; my only aim, the cloister. Yes, Rita, the cloister. Hadst thou but seen the abbey of Kandem, shaded by those ancient chestnut groves and those soaring rocks, hadst thou but heard the sea-breeze moaning through its sombre vaulted galleries, then mightest thou conceive the charm by which such prospect held me; a creation of my own, the ardent wish to pass there a peaceful and a quiet life. There would my life have flowed pure and untroubled beneath the shadow of that venerable abbey, like a hidden streamlet that glides beneath the silent grove. Feeble myself, worn by long suffering, soon should I have loved the weak, the enduring-soon should I have spent my life in succouring them; and a day would come to blot my memory out, remorseless, fearless-a day, Rita, stretched on my narrow couch, within my cell, gazing on the long bright waves of the ocean, listening, for the last time, to the sublime chorus of the sea-winds, when I should have escaped the world without remembrance and without regret." And Henry drooped his head upon Ritas bosom. "O, Henry," exclaimed the duchess, "didst thou but know with what delight, with what pride I hear thy declarations; if thou couldst but feel how sweet it is to say within oneself this soul, so frail and timid, folding its wings at the least contact with the world, expanding them only to soar towards heaven,-this soul, so pure, vowed to its great Creator,-is now offered up to me! I am become its god-it breathes for me alone, and I for it: for thou art mine, Henry, and mine are also all thy tears and thy regrets, which gives me joy beyond all earthly joys. And yet 'tis strange how are our lives opposed. I feel the strong and inflexible ideas of man; thou the sweet soft timidity of woman; and mine the task to vanquish all thy scruples, thy innocent and needless fears--to prove to thee that happiness may dwell on earth. And 'tis this contrast that inspires my love, the only love I ever felt; this love that makes me learn that I, so proud, so cold to all the homage men can pay, feel inexpressible happiness in bending here a willing slave, a suppliant, at thy knees, aspiring for one word of love from thy dear mouth, entreating it for mercy and for pity's sake." "Rita," exclaimed Henry, starting suddenly from his seat, "behold me now the victim of thy charms. Thy mouth breathes forth a fire that infatuates me, for in these moments of ecstacy my imagination is inflamed and soars beyond control, my senses are exalted to a preternatural vigour. Feel how my heart throbs. My brain is excited; my ideas spring tumultuously into life; I feel that I exist; the sun-beams shine with redoubled brilliancy; the expanse of ocean is more lovely and impressive; the flowers more sweet; the chant of birds more fond. Now I have thoughts of glory, of combat. My vows of solitude and obscurity appear but as a dream almost faded from remembrance. I know not what ardour thus awakes me, what power drags me onward. This dress is hateful to me; these books fatigue; this solitude wearies. I must have fame and tumult; I would hear the victorious huzzas of war-the clash of arms, Ah! I know not; I must myself wield the sword, and away to glory, to make myself a name that envy and respect alone shall utter." During this burst of excited passion, the whole person of Henry had undergone an incredible change. His stature seemed increased. His sorrowful and timid features gave place to an extraordinary expression of intrepid determination. His attitude was commanding. His look was fixed, like the proud eagle's eye. The duchess bowed before his gaze. For the first time she felt and acknowledged the ascendency of his nature. Just so was he admirable. Rita threw her arms around his neck. "Thus art thou beautiful, my Henry. This expression of manhood seems nature on thy brow. That boldness which flashes in thy look is incense to my heart. Should I not love it, Henry? Is it not all my work? Are not all those thoughts of glory mine? Have they not sprung from out of thy love for me? This fire which awakes thee, thou hast drunk it from my lips. In truth," she exclaimed, almost bursting into tears, "I love thee; I love thee with all the jealous tenderness, with all the egoism and pride with which a mother loves her child. I seek with avidity in thy new feelings, to which I have given birth, traces of myself, as a fond mother seeks her own features in the son whom she adores. Thus, Henry, thou owest me more than love; thou must love me as a mistress and a mother. I would not have thee please other women. But what fear have I? Thy pallid face, thy melancholy look, will but repulse them; for this paleness, this melancholy can but please me." I have often thought, Rita," said Henry with a serious air, “and this thought has often cost me bitter care, the quiet life of a recluse is no longer possible to me; my life is now thy love; I live for thee alone, and thou alone canst love me. Shouldst thou then change, Rita, shouldst thou cease to love me, what then would life have left for me? This life, to-day so beautiful, so siniling,-this future prospect which thy love enriches with fame and glory-shouldst thou deceive me, Rita." "Hear me, Henry," interrupted Rita, with singular excitement, "this fear did not reach me; for, judging thee by myself, I said, 'Should he betray me he should not live;" then, after a moment's pause, she continued, "thou wouldst not slay me, Henry, were I to change?" "Yes, yes," cried Henry, with warmth," and wherefore not?" said he, with a bitter smile, "thou hast already forced me to renounce the prospect of my life, why should I not be an assassin also? And then think, when enclosed in the arms of another, how wouldst thou laugh, laugh at the credulous child who, on the faith of a woman's love, has given to the winds his purity, his faith, has broken the holiest vows. No, no, Rita, thou hast well guessed—I would slay thee." "What love, what joy, what happiness!" exclaimed the duchess, eagerly embracing him, but suddenly starting back, then raising herself to her full height, and assuming a commanding and noble gesture, stretched her hand towards him. "In three days, Henry, thou shalt know me fully." "What meanest thou, Rita?" answered he. "In three days, Henry." "Three days without seeing thee!" "It must be so," said the duchess, but then thou shalt no longer doubt me, and I will ask of thee but one single word, one single oath to quit this tower, and to renounce for ever the vocation which has been imposed upon thee." -- "In three days," repeated Henry, with a thoughtful air, “in three days! I agree; but it must be night-at midnight!" "At midnight! Why?" "At midnight, Rita, I pray thee. Besides, an oath at night, by the feeble light of the stars, in the deep silence of night, broken only 0, by the low murmur of the sea, has about it a something sacred. Rita! he must be doubly base that forgets an oath made at this hour." "It shall be so," answered Rita, after a moment's reflection, and stretching her hand towards Henry, who remained absorbed, she moved towards the door. This unexpected, and almost solemn scene, cast a kind of restraint over the last adieu of the lovers, who had always before parted most tenderly. The duchess rejoined her esquire and was already out of sight as her lover still waved the white streamer upon the tower of Koat-veu. (To be continued. THE KLINGEL CHAPEL. BY MRS. G. G. RICHARDSON. NEAR where the crystal Money goes, Her fay-boons 'neath the bright moonshine, 'Mid bowering shades had scooped his cell, And prayerful communing to dwell Alone with heaven, ere bidding earth farewell. But they were past-regrets were o'er; No bitterness of memory bore. Time's injuries, that pained no more, Not far, in dissonance, were heard Lone, dungeon-bound, immured from day, By despot torturers doomed, in living death. Woe, wassail, godless mirth, and gloom. "In one of the sweetest of those valleys is a little lake, called Mummulsea, which, being interpreted, means Lake of the Fairies, round which a set of benevolent spirits assemble at the full of the moon, and, if the housewives for five miles round will on that night leave work of any kind ready to the hand, these kindly fays perform it without fee or reward."-Mrs. Trollope's Belgium and West Germany. He prayed for those who prayer forgot. "When the monks of La Trappe are asked why they choose this seclusion, their answer is invariably, 'To glorify God, to repent of their sins, and to pray for the unhappy world which prays not for itself."". Memoirs of Port Royal. Were sunny hope and sylvan bloom O arrowy Rhine! who shal! presume And, wakeful on his leafy bed, With night's deep star-calm o'er his head, In spirit fervently he prayed Her deeper night might be removed, Her crime-stained son, by Jesu's aid, Heaven's beams, wrath-hidden, might at length pervade. Broke on his prayer a music strain Of seraph-sweetness wandering near; He listened, rose, and searched amain Whence came those sounds of heavenly cheer, A stream of light seemed as it bore In visible breathing o'er the plain From out a neighbouring dell deep-wooded o'er. The flame had vanished, nor renewed With tones no mortal minstrel e'er expressed. Holy, resistless, drew him on To linger searchfully (the name Most holy oft his lips upon) From glistering dawn till the last day-beam shone. O rich reward! beneath the leaves, In matted tufts explored anew, At the third day-close he perceives, When rose the luminous track to view, A token to his bodings true; The virgin mother's image fair He reads prophetic, and receives The mission those blest types declare, For now the light, the hymn, interpret were. And strong in faith, by love made bold, And the Rhine's arrowy tides are rolled |