BOOK XVI.

PARTING AND ABSENCE.

CHAPTER I.

As soon as Corinne's arrival was known in Venice, it excited the

greatest curiosity. When she went to a _café_ in the piazza of St.

Mark, its galleries were crowded, for a moment's glimpse at her; and

the best society sought her with eager haste. She had once loved to

produce this effect wherever she appeared, and naturally confessed

that admiration had many charms for her. Genius inspires this thirst

for fame: there is no blessing undesired by those to whom Heaven gave

the means of winning it. Yet in her present situation she dreaded

everything in opposition with the domestic habits so dear to Nevil.

Corinne was blind to her own welfare, in attaching herself to a man

likely rather to repress than to excite her talents; but it is easy

to conceive why a woman, occupied by literature and the arts, should

love the tastes that differed from her own. One is so often weary

of one's self, that a resemblance of that self would never tempt

affection, which requires a harmony of sentiment, but a contrast of

character; many sympathies, but not unvaried congeniality. Nevil

was supremely blessed with this double charm. His gentle ease and

gracious manner could never sate, because his liability to clouds and

storms kept up a constant interest. Although the depth and extent of

his acquirements fitted him for any life, his political opinions and

military bias inclined him rather to a career of arms than one of

letters--the thought that action might be more poetical than even verse

itself. He was superior to the success of his own mind, and spoke of

it with much indifference. Corinne strove to please him by imitating

this carelessness of literary glory; in order to grow more like the

retiring females from whom English womanhood offers the best model.

Yet the homage she received at Venice gave Oswald none but agreeable

sensations. There was so much cordial good-breeding in the reception

she met--the Venetians expressed the pleasure her conversation afforded

them with such vivacity, that Oswald felt proud of being dear to one so

universally admired. He was no longer jealous of her celebrity, certain

that she prized him far above it; and his own love increased by every

tribute she elicited. He forgot England, and revelled in the Italian

heedlessness of days to come. Corinne perceived this change; and her

imprudent heart welcomed it, as if to last forever.

Italian is the only tongue whose dialects are almost languages of

themselves. In that of each state books might be written distinct

from the standard Italian; though only the Neapolitan, Sicilian,

and Venetian dialects have yet the honor of being acknowledged; and

that of Venice as the most original, most graceful of all. Corinne

pronounced it charmingly; and the manner in which she sung some lively

_barcaroles_ proved that she could act comedy as well as tragedy. She

was pressed to take a part in an opera which some of her new friends

intended playing the next week. Since she had loved Oswald, she

concealed this talent from him, not feeling sufficient peace of mind

for its exercise, or, at other times, fearing that any outbreak of

high spirits might be followed by misfortune; but now, with unwonted

confidence, she consented, as he, too, joined in the request; and it

was agreed that she should perform in a piece, like most of Gozzi's,

composed of the most diverting fairy extravagances.[1] Truffaldin and

Pantaloon, in these burlesques, often jostle the greatest monarchs of

the earth. The marvellous furnishes them with jests, which, from their

very order, cannot approach to low vulgarity. The Child of the Air,

or Semiramis in her Youth, is a coquette, endowed by the celestials

and infernals to subjugate the world; bred in a desert, like a savage,

cunning as a sorceress, and imperious as a queen, she unites natural

wildness with premeditated grace, and a warrior's courage with the

frivolity of a woman. The character demands a fund of fanciful

drollery, which but the inspiration of the moment can bring to light.

[1] Among the comic Italian authors who have described their country's

manners, must be reckoned the Chevalier Rossi, a Roman, who singularly

unites observation with satire.

CHAPTER II.

Fate sometimes has its own strange, cruel sport, repulsing our

presuming familiarity. Oft, when we yield to hope, calculate on

success, and trifle with our destiny, the sable thread is blending with

its tissue, and the weird sisters dash down the airy fabrics we have

reared.

It was now November; yet Corinne arose enchanted with her prospects.

For the first act she chose a very picturesque costume: her hair,

though dishevelled, was arranged with an evident design of pleasing;

her light, fantastic garb gave her noble form a most mischievously

attractive air. She reached the palace where she was to play. Every

one but Oswald had arrived. She deferred the performance as long as

possible, and began to be uneasy at his absence; when she came on the

stage, however, she perceived him, though he sat in a remote part of

the hall, and the pain of having waited redoubled her joy. She was

inspired by gayety as she had been at the Capitol by enthusiasm.

This drama blends song with speech, and even gives opportunities for

extempore dialogue, of which Corinne availed herself to render the

scene more animated. She sung the _buffa_ airs with peculiar elegance.

Her gestures were at once comic and dignified. She extorted laughter,

without ceasing to be imposing. Her talents, like her part, queened

it over actors and spectators, pleasantly bantering both parties. Ah!

who would not have wept over such a sight, could they have known that

this bright armor but drew down the lightning, that this triumphant

mirth would soon give place to bitter desolation? The applause was so

continual, so judicious, that the rapture of the audience infected

Corinne with that kind of delirium which pours a lethe over the past,

and bids the future seem unclouded. Oswald had seen her represent the

deepest woe, at a time when he still hoped to make her happy; he now

beheld her breathing stainless joy, just as he had received tidings

that might prove fatal to them both. Oft did he wish to take her

from this scene of daring happiness, yet felt a sad pleasure in once

more beholding that lovely countenance bedecked in smiles. At the

conclusion, she appeared arrayed as an Amazonian queen, commanding men,

almost the elements, by that reliance on her charms which beauty may

preserve, unless she loves; then, then, no gift of nature or of fortune

can reassure her spirit; but this crowned flirt, this fairy queen,

miraculously blending rage with wit, carelessness with ambition, and

conceit with despotism, seemed to rule over fate as over hearts; and

when she ascended her throne she exacted the submission of her subjects

with a smile, arch as it was arrogant. This was, perhaps, the moment

of her life, from which both grief and fear seemed furthest banished;

when suddenly she saw her lover bow his face on his hands to hide

his tears. She trembled, and the curtain had not quite fallen, when,

leaving her already hated throne, she rushed into the next apartment.

Thither he followed her; and when she marked his paleness, she was

seized with such alarm that she was forced to lean against the wall

for support. "Oswald," she said, "my God! what has happened?"--"I must

start for England to-night," he said, forgetting that he ought not

thus to have exposed her feelings.--"No, no!" she cried, clinging to

him distractedly; "you cannot plunge me into such despair. How have I

merited it? or--or--you mean that you will take me with you?"--"Let us

leave this cruel crowd," he said: "come with me, Corinne." She followed

him, not understanding aught addressed to her, answering at random;

her gait and look so changed, that every one believed her struck with

sudden illness.

CHAPTER III.

When they were in the gondola, she raved: "What you have made me feel

is worse than death: be generous: throw me into these waves, that I

may lose the sense which maddens me. Oswald, be brave: I have seen

you do things that required more courage."--"Hold, hold!" he cried,

"if you would not drive me to suicide. Hear me, when we have reached

your house, and then pronounce our fate. In the name of Heaven be

calm!" There was such misery in his accents that she was silent; but

trembled so violently, that she could hardly walk up the stairs to her

apartment. There she tore off her ornaments in dismay; and, as Lord

Nevil saw _her_ in this state, a few moments since so brilliant, he

sank upon a seat in tears.--"Am I a barbarian?" he cried. "Corinne!

Just Heaven! Corinne! do you not think me so?"--"No," she said, "no, I

cannot.--Have you not still that look which every day gives me fresh

comfort? Oswald, your presence is a ray from heaven--can I then fear

you?--not dare to read your eyes? but fall before you as before my

murderer? Oh, Oswald! Oswald!" and she threw herself at his feet in

supplication. "What do I see," he exclaimed, raising her vehemently,

"would you dishonor me? Well, be it so. My regiment embarks in a

month. I will remain, if you betray this all-commanding grief, but I

shall not survive my shame."--"I ask you not to stay," she said; "but

what harm can I do by following you!"--"We go to the West Indies,

and no officer is allowed to take his wife."--"Well, well, at least

let me go to England with you."--"My letters also tell me," answered

he, "that reports concerning us are already in the papers there;

that your identity is suspected; and your family, excited by Lady

Edgarmond, refuses to meet or own you. Give me but time to reconcile

them, to enforce your rights with your step-mother; for if I take you

thither, and leave you, ere your name be cleared, you will endure all

the severe opinions which I shall not be by to answer."--"Then you

refuse me everything!" she said, and sank insensible to the earth,

her forehead receiving a wound in the fall. Oswald shrieked at the

sight. Thérésina entered in extreme alarm, and restored her mistress

to animation; but when Corinne perceived, in an opposite mirror, her

own pale and disfigured face--"Oswald," she sighed, "it was not thus

I looked the day you met me first. I wore the crown of hope and fame,

now blood and dust are on my brow; yet it is not for you to despise the

state to which you have reduced me. Others may--but you cannot--you

ought to pity me for loving thus--you must!"--"Stay," he cried, "that

is too much;" and signing for Thérésina to retire, he took Corinne in

his arms, saying: "Do what thou wilt with me. I must submit to the

decrees of Heaven. I cannot abandon thee in this distress, nor lead

thee to England, before I have secured thee against the insults of that

haughty woman. I will stay with thee. I cannot depart." These words

recalled Corinne to herself, yet overwhelmed her with despair. She

felt the necessity that weighed upon her, and with her head reclined,

remained long silent.--"Dearest!" said Oswald, "let me hear thy voice.

I have no other support--no other guide now."--"No," replied Corinne,

"you must leave me," and a flood of tears evinced her comparative

resignation--"My love," said Nevil, "I call to witness this portrait

of my father, and you best know whether his name is sacred to me--I

swear to it that my life is in thy power, if needful to thy happiness.

At my return from the islands I will see if I cannot restore thee to

thy due rank in thy father's country. If I fail, I will return to

Italy, and live or die at thy feet."--"But the dangers you are about

to brave," she rejoined.--"Fear not, I shall escape; or if I perish,

unknown as I am, my memory will survive in thy heart; and when thou

hearest my name, thou mayest say, perhaps with tearful eyes, 'I knew

him once--he loved me!'"--"Ah, leave me!" she cried: "you are deceived

by my apparent calm; to-morrow, when the sun rises, and I tell myself,

'I shall see _him_ no more,' the thought may kill me; happy if it

does."--"Why, Corinne, do you fear? is my solemn promise nothing? Can

your heart doubt it?"--"No, I respect--too much not to believe you: it

would cost me more to abjure mine admiration than my love. I look on

you as an angelic being--the purest, noblest, that ever shone on earth.

It is not alone your grace that captivates me, but the idea that so

many virtues never before united in one object, and that your heavenly

look was only given to express them all. Far be it from me, then, to

doubt your word. I should fly from the human face forever if Lord Nevil

could deceive; but absence has so many perils, and that dreaded word

adieu----"--"Have I not said, never--save from my death-bed?" demanded

Oswald, with such emotion that Corinne, terrified for his health,

strove to restrain her feelings, and became more pitiable than before.

They then began to concert means of writing, and to speak on the

certainty of rejoining each other. A year was the term fixed. Oswald

securely believed that the expedition would not be longer away. Some

time was left them still, and Corinne trusted to regain her strength;

but when Oswald told her that the gondola would come for him at three

in the morning, and she saw, by her dial, that the hour was not far

distant, she shivered as if she were approaching the stake: her lover

had every instant less resolution; and, Corinne, who had never seen

his mastery over himself thus unmanned, was heart-broken at the sight

of his great anguish. She consoled him, though she must have been a

thousand times the most unhappy of the two.--"Listen!" she said: "when

you are in London, fickle gallants will tell you that love-promises

bind not your honor; that every Englishman has liked some Italian on

his travels, and forgotten her on his return; that a few pleasant

months ought to involve neither the giver nor the receiver; that at

your age the color of your whole life cannot depend upon the temporary

fascinations of a foreigner. Now this will seem right in the way of the

world; but will you, who know the heart of which you made yourself the

lord, find excuses in these sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound?

Will barbarous jests from men of the day prevent your hand's trembling

as it drives the poniard through this breast?"--"Hush," said Oswald:

"you know it is not your grief alone restrains me: but where could

I find such bliss as I have owed to you? Who, in the universe, can

understand me as you do? Corinne, you are the only woman who can feel

or inspire true love, that harmonious intelligence of hearts and souls,

which I shall never enjoy except with you. You know I am not fickle:

I look on all things seriously; is it then against you only that I

should belie my nature?"--"No," answered Corinne; "you would not treat

my fond sincerity with scorn; it is not you, Oswald, who could remain

insensible to my despair; but to you my step-mother will say all that

can sully my past life. Spare me the task of telling you beforehand

her pitiless remarks. Far from what talents I may boast disarming her,

they are my greatest errors in her eyes. She cannot feel their charm,

she only sees their danger: whatever is unlike the destiny she herself

chose seems useless, if not culpable. The poetry of the heart to her

appears but an impertinence, which usurps the right of depreciating

common sense. It is in the name of virtues I respect as much as you

do that she will condemn my character and fate. Oswald, she will call

me unworthy of you."--"And how should I hear that?" interrupted he:

"what virtues dare she rate above your generosity, your frankness? No,

heavenly creature! be common minds judged by common rules; but shame

befall the being you have loved who does not more revere than even

adore you. Peerless in love and truth, Corinne! my firmness fails; if

you sustain me not, I can never fly. It is from you I must receive the

power to pain you."--"Well," said Corinne, "there are some seconds yet

ere I must recommend myself to God, and beg he will enable me to hear

the hour of your departure strike. Oh, Oswald, we love each other with

deep tenderness. I have intrusted you with all my secrets; the facts

were nothing--but the most private feelings of my heart, you know them

all. I have not a thought that is not wedded to thee: if I write aught

in which my soul expands, thou art mine inspiration. I address myself

to thee, as I shall my latest sigh. What, then, is my asylum if thou

leavest me? The arts will retrace thine image, music thy voice. Genius,

which formerly entranced my spirit, is nothing now but love, and

unshared with thee must perish. Oh, God!" she added, raising her eyes

to heaven, "deign but to hear me! Thou art not merciless to our noblest

sorrows; take back my life when he has ceased to love: it will be then

but suffering. He carries with him all my highest, softest feelings: if

he permits the fire shrined in his breast to be extinguished, wherever

I may be, my life, too, will be quenched. Great God! thou didst not

frame me to outlive my better self, and what should I become in ceasing

to esteem him? He ought to love me ever--I feel he ought--my affection

should command his! Oh! heavenly Father! death or his love!"

As she concluded this prayer she turned to Oswald, and beheld him

prostrated before her in strong convulsions: he repelled her cares,

as if his reason were entirely lost. Corinne gently pressed his hand,

repeating to him all he had said to her, assuring him that she relied

on his return. Her words somewhat composed him; yet the nearer the

hour of separation drew, the more impossible it seemed to part. "Why,"

he said, "should we not go to the altar and at once take our eternal

oaths?" All the firmness, all the pride of Corinne, revived at these

words. Oswald had told her that a woman's grief once before subdued

him, but his love had chilled with every sacrifice he made. After a

moment's silence, she replied: "No, you must see your country and your

friends before you adopt this resolution. I owe it now, my Lord, to

the pangs of parting, and I will not accept it." He took her hand. "At

least," he said, "I swear again my faith is bound to this ring; while

you preserve it, never shall another attain a right over my actions; if

you at last reject me, and send it back----"--"Cease," she interposed,

"cease to talk of a fear you never felt; I cannot be the first to break

our sacred tie, and almost blush to assure you of what you but too well

know already." Meanwhile, the time advanced. Corinne turned pale at

every sound. Nevil remained in speechless grief beside her; at last a

light gleamed through the window, and the black, hearse-like gondola

stopped before the door. Corinne uttered a scream of fright, and fell

into Oswald's arms, crying: "They are here--adieu--leave me--all is

over!"--"Oh God, oh my father!" he exclaimed; "what do ye exact of me?"

He embraced and wept over his beloved, who continued: "Go! it must

be done--go!"--"Let me call Thérésina," he said; "I cannot leave you

thus alone."--"Alone!" she repeated: "shall I not be alone till you

return?"--"I cannot quit this room; it is impossible," he articulated,

with desperation.--"Well," said Corinne, "then it is I must give the

signal. I will open the door; but when I have done so, spare me a few

short instants."--"Yes, yes," he murmured, "let us be still together,

though these cruel combats are even worse than absence." They now heard

the boatmen calling up Lord Nevil's servants; one of whom soon tapped

at the door, informing him that all was ready.--"All is ready," echoed

Corinne, and knelt beside his father's portrait. Doubtless, her former

life then passed in review before her; she exaggerated every fault, and

feared herself unworthy of Divine compassion, though far too wretched

to exist without it. When she arose, she held forth her hand to Nevil,

saying: "Now I can bid you farewell--a moment more, and, perhaps, I

could not. May God protect your steps and mine--for I must need his

care!" Oswald flung himself once more into her arms, trembling and pale

like one prepared for torture, and left the room, where, perhaps, for

the last time, he had loved, and felt himself beloved, as few have ever

been, or ever can be.

When he disappeared, a horrid palpitation attacked Corinne; she could

not breathe; everything she beheld looked unreal; objects seemed

vanishing from her sight; the chamber tottering as from a shock of

earthquake. For a quarter of an hour she heard the servants completing

the preparations for this journey. _He_ was still near; she might

yet again behold him, speak to him once more; but she would not

trust herself. Oswald lay almost senseless in the gondola. At last

it rowed away: and at that moment, Corinne fled forth to recall him;

but Thérésina stopped her. A heavy rain was falling, and a high wind

arose; the house was now, indeed, shaken like a ship at sea, and Oswald

had to cross the Lagune in such weather! Corinne descended, purposing

to follow him, at least till he should land in safety; but it was so

dark that not a single gondola was plying: she walked, in dreadful

agitation, the narrow pavement that divides the houses from the water.

The storm increased; she called upon the boatmen, who mistook her cries

for those of some poor creature drowning--yet no one dared approach,

the waves of the grand canal had swollen so formidably. Corinne

remained till daybreak in this state; meanwhile the tempest ceased.

One of the gondoliers brought word from Oswald that he had crossed

securely. That moment was almost a happy one; and it was some hours

ere the unfortunate creature again felt the full weight of absence, or

calculated the long days which but anxiety and grief might henceforth

occupy.

CHAPTER IV.

During the first part of his journey, Oswald was frequently on the

point of returning; but the motives for perseverance vanquished this

desire. We make a solemn step towards the limits of Love's empire,

after we have once disobeyed him--the dream of his resistlessness is

over. On approaching England, all Oswald's homefelt recollections

returned. The year he had passed abroad had no connection with any

other era of his life. A glorious apparition had charmed his fancy, but

could not change the tastes, the opinions, of which his existence had

been, till then, composed. He regained _himself_; and though regret

prevented his yet feeling any delight, his thoughts began to steady

from the Italian intoxication which had unsettled them. No sooner

had he landed, than his mind was struck with the ease, the order, the

wealth, and industry he looked on; the habits and inclinations to which

he was born waked with more force than ever.

In a land where men have so much dignity, and women so much virtue,

where domestic peace is the basis of public welfare, Oswald could but

remember Italy to pity her. He saw the stamp of human reason upon all

things; he had lately found, in social life as in state institutions,

nothing but confusion, weakness, and ignorance. Painting and poetry

gave place in his heart to freedom and to morals; and, much as he

loved Corinne, he gently blamed her for wearying of a race so wise, so

noble. Had he left her imaginative land for one of bare frivolity, he

would have pined for it still; but now he exchanged the vague yearnings

after romantic rapture, for pride in the truest blessings--security and

independence. He returned to a career that suits man's mind--action

that has an aim! Reverie may be the heritage of women, weak and

resigned from their birth; but man would win what he desires: his

courage irritates him against his fate, unless he can direct it by his

will. In London, Oswald met his early friends: he heard that language

so condensed in power, that it seems to imply more thoughts than it

explains. Again he saw those serious countenances that kindle or that

melt so suddenly, when deep affections triumph over their habit of

reserve. He once more tasted the pleasure of making discoveries in the

human heart, _there_ by degrees revealed to the observant eye. He felt

himself in his own land, and those who never left it know not by how

many links it is endeared to them. The image of Corinne mingled with

all these impressions; and the more reluctant he felt to leave his

country, the more he wished to marry, and fix in Scotland with her.

He was even impatient to embark that he might return the sooner; but

the expedition was suspended, though still liable to be ordered abroad

immediately. No officer, therefore, could dispose of his time even

for a fortnight. Lord Nevil doubly felt his separation from Corinne,

having neither leisure nor liberty to form or follow any decided plan.

He passed six weeks in London, fretted by every moment thus lost to

her. Finally, he resolved to beguile his impatience by a short visit

to Northumberland, and, by influencing Lady Edgarmond to recognize the

daughter of her late Lord, contradict the report of her death, and the

unfavorable insinuations of the papers: for he longed to tender her the

rank and respect so thoroughly her due.

CHAPTER V.

Oswald reflected with emotion that he was about to behold the scene

in which Corinne had passed so many years. He felt embarrassed by the

necessity of informing Lady Edgarmond that he could not make Lucy his

wife. The north of England, too, reminded him of Scotland, and the

memory of his father was never absent from his mind.

When he reached Lady Edgarmond's estate, he was struck by the good

taste which pervaded its grounds; and, as the mistress of the mansion

was not ready to receive him, he walked awhile in the park: through

its foliage he beheld a youthful and elegant figure reading with much

attention. A beautiful fair curl, escaping from her bonnet, told him

that this was Lucy, whom three years had improved from child to woman.

He approached her, bowed, and forgetting where he was, would have

imprinted a respectful kiss upon her hand, after the Italian mode; but

the young lady drew back, and, blushing as she courtesied, replied, "I

will inform my mother, sir, that you desire to see her." She withdrew,

and Nevil remained awed by the modest air of that angelic face. Lucy

had just entered her sixteenth year; her features were extremely

delicate; she had a little outgrown her strength, as might be judged

by her gait and mutable complexion. Her blue eyes were so downcast

that her countenance owed its chief attraction to these rapid changes

of color, which alone betrayed her feelings. Oswald, since he had

dwelt in the south, had never beheld this species of expression. He

reproached himself for having accosted her with such familiarity; and,

as he followed her to the castle, mused on the perfect innocence of a

girl who had never left her mother, nor felt one emotion stronger than

filial tenderness. Lady Edgarmond was alone when she received him. He

had seen her twice, some years before, without any particular notice;

but now he observed her carefully, comparing her with the descriptions

of Corinne. He found them correct in many respects; yet he thought that

he detected more sensibility than she had done, not being accustomed,

like himself, to guess what such self-regulated physiognomies

conceal. His first anxiety was on Corinne's account, and he began the

conversation by praising Italy. "It is an amusing residence for men,"

returned Lady Edgarmond; "but I should be very sorry if any woman,

in whom I felt an interest, could long be pleased with it."--"And

yet," continued Oswald, already hurt by this insinuation, "I found

there the most distinguished woman I ever met."--"Probably, as to

mental attainments; but an honorable man seeks other qualities in the

companion of his life."--"And he would find them!" he said, warmly: he

might have made his meaning clear at once, but that Lucy entered, and

said a few words apart to her mother, who replied aloud: "No, my dear,

you cannot go to your cousin's to-day. Lord Nevil dines here." Lucy

blushed, seated herself beside her mother, and took up her embroidery,

from which she never raised her eyes, nor did she utter a syllable.

Nevil was almost angry: it was most probable that Lucy knew there had

been some idea of their union: he remembered all Corinne had said on

the probable effects of the severe education Lady Edgarmond would give

her daughter. In England, young girls are usually more at liberty than

married women: reason and morality alike favor their privileges; but

Lady Edgarmond would have had all females thus rigorously secluded.

Oswald could not, before Lucy, explain his intentions relative to

Corinne; and Lady Edgarmond kept up a discourse on other subjects, with

a firm and simple good sense, that extorted his deference. He would

have combated her strict opinions, but he felt that if he used one word

in a different acceptation from her own, she would form an opinion

which nothing could efface; and he hesitated at this first step, so

irreparable with a person who will make no individual exceptions, but

judges everything by fixed and general rules. Dinner was announced; and

Lucy offered her arm to Lady Edgarmond. Oswald then first discovered

that his hostess walked with great difficulty. "I am suffering," she

said, "from a painful, perhaps a fatal ailment." Lucy turned pale; and

her mother resumed, with a more gentle cheerfulness: "My daughter's

attention has once saved my life, and may preserve it long." Lucy

bent her head, and when she raised it, her lashes were still wet with

tears; yet she dared not even take her mother's hand: all had passed

at the bottom of her heart; and she was only conscious of a stranger's

presence, from the necessity of concealing her agitation. Oswald

deeply felt this restraint of hers, and his mind, so lately thrilled

by passionate eloquence, refreshed itself by contemplating so chastely

simple a picture. Lucy seemed enveloped in some immaculate veil, that

sweetly baffled his speculations. During dinner she spared her mother

from all fatigue--serving everything herself; and Nevil only heard her

voice when she offered to help him; but these common-place courtesies

were performed with such enchanting grace, that he asked himself how

it was possible for such slight actions to betray so much soul. "One

must have," he said to himself, "either the genius of Corinne, that

surpasses all one could imagine, or this pure unconscious mystery,

which leaves every man free to suppose whatever virtues he prefers."

The mother and daughter rose from table: he would have followed them;

but her Ladyship adhered so scrupulously to old customs, that she

begged he would wait till they sent to let him know the tea was ready.

He joined them in a quarter of an hour. Most part of the evening passed

without his having one opportunity of speaking to Lady Edgarmond as

he designed. He was about to depart for the town, purposing to return

on the morrow, when his hostess offered him a room in the castle.

He accepted it without deliberation; but repented his readiness, on

perceiving that it seemed to be taken as a proof of his inclination

towards Lucy. This was but an additional motive for his renewing the

conversation respecting Corinne. Lady Edgarmond proposed a turn in the

garden. Oswald offered her his arm; she looked at him steadfastly, and

then said: "That is right: I thank you." Lucy resigned her parent to

Nevil, but timidly whispered, "Pray, my Lord, walk slowly!" He started

at this first private intelligence with her: those pitying tones were

just such as he might have expected from a being above all earthly

passions. He did not think his sense of such a moment any treason to

Corinne. They returned for evening prayer, at which her Ladyship always

assembled her household in the great hall. Most of them were very

infirm, having served the fathers of Lord and Lady Edgarmond. Oswald

was thus reminded of his paternal home. Every one knelt, except the

matron, who, prevented by her lameness, listened with folded hands and

downcast eyes in reverent silence. Lucy was on her knees beside her

parent: it was her duty to read the service; a chapter of the Gospel,

followed by a prayer adapted to domestic country life, composed by the

mistress of the house: its somewhat austere expressions were contrasted

by the soft voice that breathed them.

After blessing the king and country, the servants and the kindred of

this family, Lucy tremblingly added, "Grant also, O God! that the

young daughter of this house may live and die with soul unsullied by a

single thought or feeling that conforms not with her duty; and that her

mother, who must soon return to thee for judgment, may have some claim

or pardon for her faults, in the virtues of her only child."

Lucy said this prayer daily; but now Oswald's presence so affected her,

that tears, which she strove to conceal, flowed down her cheeks. He was

touched with respectful tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infantine

face, that looked as if it still remembered having dwelt in heaven. Its

beauty, thus surrounded by age and decrepitude, was an image of divine

commiseration. He reflected on her lonely life, deprived of all the

pleasures, all the flatteries, due to her youth and charms: his soul

melted towards her. The mother of Lucy, too, he found a person more

severe to herself than to others. The limits of her mind might rather

be attributed to the strength of her principles than to any natural

deficiencies: the asperity of her character was acquired from repressed

impulses; and, as Corinne had said, her affection for her child gained

force from this extreme control of all others.

By ten in the evening all was silent throughout the castle, and Oswald

left to muse over his last few hours: he owned not to himself that Lucy

had made an impression on his heart; perhaps, as yet, this was not the

case; but in spite of the thousand attractions Corinne offered to his

fancy, there was one class of ideas, wherein Lucy might have reigned

more supremely than her sister. The image of domestic felicity suited

better with a retreat in Northumberland than with a coronation at the

Capitol; besides, he remembered which of these sisters his father had

selected for him: but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had given

her his faith, and therefore persisted in his intention of confiding

this to Lady Edgarmond on the morrow. He fell asleep thinking of Italy,

but still the form of Lucy flitted lightly before him. He awoke: when

he slept again, the same dream returned; at last this ethereal shape

seemed flying from him; he strove to detain her, and started up, as she

disappeared, fearing her lost to him. The day had broken, and he left

his room to enjoy a morning walk.

CHAPTER VI.

The sun was just risen. Oswald supposed that no one was yet stirring,

till he perceived Lucy already drawing in a balcony. Her hair, not yet

fastened, was waving in the gale: she looked so like his dream, that

for a moment he started, as if he had beheld a spirit; and though soon

ashamed at having been so affected by such a natural circumstance, he

remained for some time beneath her station, but she did not perceive

him. As he pursued his walk, he wished more than ever for the presence

that would have dissipated these half-formed impressions. Lucy was an

enigma, which Corinne's genius could have solved; without her aid,

it took a thousand changeful forms in his mind's eye. He re-entered

the drawing-room, and found Lucy placing her morning's work in a

little brown frame, facing her mother's tea-table. It was a white

rose, on its leafy stalk, finished to perfection. "You draw, then?" he

said.--"No, my Lord," she answered; "I merely copy the easiest flowers

I can find: there is no master near us: the little I ever learned I

owe to a sister who used to give me lessons." She sighed.--"And what

is become of her?" asked Oswald.--"She is dead; but I shall always

regret her."--He found that _she_, too had been deceived;[1] but her

confession of regret evinced so amiable a disposition, that he felt

more pleased, more affected, than before. Lucy was about to retire,

remembering that she was alone with Lord Nevil, when Lady Edgarmond

joined them. She looked on her daughter with surprise and displeasure,

and motioned her to withdraw. This first informed Oswald that Lucy

had done something very extraordinary, in remaining a few minutes

with a man out of her mother's presence; and he was as much gratified

as he would have been by a decided mark of preference under other

auspices. Lady Edgarmond took her seat, and dismissed the servant who

had supported her to the sofa. She was pale, and her lips trembled as

she offered a cup of tea to Lord Nevil. These symptoms increased his

own embarrassment, yet, animated by zeal for her he loved, he began:

"Lady Edgarmond, I have often in Italy seen a female particularly

interesting to you."--"I cannot believe it," she answered, dryly: "no

one there interests me."--"I should think that the daughter of your

husband had some claim on your affection."--"If the daughter of my

husband be indifferent to her duties and reputation, though I surely

cannot wish her any ill, I shall be very glad to hear no more of

her."--"But," said Oswald, quickly, "if the woman your Ladyship deserts

is celebrated by the world for her great and varied talents, will

you forever thus disdain her?"--"Not the less, sir, for the abilities

that wean her from her rightful occupations. There are plenty of

actresses, artists, and musicians, to amuse society: in our rank, a

woman's only becoming station is that which devotes her to her husband

and children."--"Madam," returned Oswald, "such talents cannot exist

without an elevated character and a generous heart: do you censure

them for extending the mind, and giving a more vast, more general

influence to virtue itself?"--"Virtue!" she repeated, with a bitter

smile; "I know not what you mean by the word, so applied. The virtue of

a young woman, who flies from her father's home, establishes herself

in Italy, leads the _freest_ life, receives all kinds of homage, to

say no worse, sets an example pernicious to others as to herself,

abandoning her rank, her family, her name----"--"Madam," interrupted

Oswald, "she sacrificed her name to you, and to your daughter, whom she

feared to injure."--"She knew that she dishonored it, then," replied

the step-mother.--"This is too much," said Oswald, violently: "Corinne

Edgarmond will soon be Lady Nevil, and we shall then see if you blush

to acknowledge the daughter of your Lord. You confound with the vulgar

herd a being gifted like no other woman--an angel of goodness, tender

and diffident at heart, as she is sublime of soul. She may have had her

faults, if that innate superiority that could not conform with common

rules be one, but a single deed or word of hers might well efface

them all. She will more honor the man she chooses to protect her than

could the empress of a world."--"Be that man, then, my Lord!" said

Lady Edgarmond, making an effort to restrain her feelings: "satirize

me as narrow-minded; nothing you say can change me. I understand by

morality, an exact observance of established rules; beyond which, fine

qualities misapplied deserve at best but pity."--"The world would have

been very sterile, my Lady," said Oswald, "had it always thoughts you

do of genius and enthusiasm: human nature would have become a thing

of mere formalities. But, not to continue this fruitless discussion,

I will only ask, if you mean to acknowledge your daughter-in-law,

when she is my wife?"--"Still less on that account," answered her

Ladyship: "I owe your father's memory my exertions to prevent so fatal

a union if I can."--"My father!" repeated Nevil, always agitated

by that name.--"Are you ignorant," she continued, "that he refused

her, ere she had committed any actual fault? foreseeing, with the

perfect sagacity that so characterized him, what she would one day

become?"--"How, madam! what more know you of this?"--"Your father's

letter to Lord Edgarmond on the subject," interrupted the lady, "is

in the hands of his old friend, Mr. Dickson. I sent it to him, when I

heard of your connection with this Corinne, that you might read it on

your return: it would not have become me to retain it." Oswald, after a

few moments' silence, resumed: "I ask your Ladyship but for an act of

justice, due to yourself, that is, to receive your husband's daughter

as she deserves."--"I _shall_ not, in any way, my Lord, contribute to

your misery. If her present nameless and unmatronized existence be an

obstacle to your marrying her, God, and your father, forbid that I

should remove it!"--"Madam," he exclaimed, "her misfortunes are but

added chains that bind me to her."--"Well," replied Lady Edgarmond,

with an impetuosity to which she would not have given way had not her

own child been thus deprived of a suitable husband, "well, render

yourself wretched, then! she will be so too: she hates this country,

and never will comply with its manners: this is no theatre for the

versatile talents you so prize, and which render her so fastidious.

She will carry you back to Italy: you will forswear your friends and

native land, for a lovely foreigner, I confess, but for one who could

forget you, if you wished it. Those flighty brains are ever changeful:

deep griefs were made for the women you deem so common-place, those who

live but for their homes and families." This was, perhaps, the first

time in her life that Lady Edgarmond had spoken on impulse: it shook

her weakened nerves; and, as she ceased, she sank back, half fainting.

Oswald rang loudly for help. Lucy ran in alarmed, hastened to revive

her parent, and cast on Nevil an uneasy look, that seemed to say: "Is

it you who have made mamma so ill?" He felt this deeply, and strove

to atone by attentions to Lady Edgarmond; but she repulsed him coldly,

blushing to think that she had seemed to pride but little in her girl,

by betraying this anxiety to secure her a reluctant bridegroom. She

bade Lucy leave them, and said calmly: "My Lord, at all events, I beg

that you will consider yourself free. My daughter is so young, that she

is no way concerned in the project formed by your father and myself;

but that being changed, it would be an indecorum for me to receive you

until she is married." Nevil bowed.--"I will content myself, then," he

said, "with writing to you on the fate of a person whom I can never

desert."--"You are the master of that fate," concluded Lady Edgarmond,

in a smothered voice; and Oswald departed. In riding down the avenue,

he perceived, at a distance, the elegant figure of young Lucy. He

checked his horse to look on her once more, and it appeared that she

took the same direction with himself. The high road passed before a

summer-house, at the end of the park; he saw her enter it, and went by

with some reluctance, unable to discern her: he frequently turned his

head, and, at a point from which the road was best commanded, observed

a slight movement among the trees. He stopped; it ceased: uncertain

whether he had guessed correctly, he proceeded, then abruptly rode

back with the speed of lightning, as if he had dropped something by

the way; there, indeed, he saw her, on the edge of the bank, and bowed

respectfully: she drew down her veil, and hastily concealed herself in

the thicket, forgetting that she thus tacitly avowed the motive which

had brought her there. The poor child had never felt so guilty in her

life; and far from thinking of simply returning his salute, she feared

that she must have lost his good opinion by having been so forward.

Oswald felt flattered by this blameless and timorous sincerity. "No

one," thought he, "could be more candid than Corinne; but then, no one

better knew herself or others. Lucy had all to learn. Yet this charm

of the day, could it suffice for a life? this pretty ignorance cannot

endure; and since we must penetrate the secrets of our own hearts at

last, is not the candor which survives such examination worth more

than that which precedes it?" This comparison, he believed, was but an

amusement to his mind, which could never occupy it more gravely.

[1] A religious, moral, English gentlewoman propose a romantic

falsehood, so likely to wreck its theme on the dangers against which

Lady Edgarmond warned Corinne! This anti-national inconsistency

neutralizes all the rest of Madame de Staël's intended satire.--TR.

CHAPTER VII.

Oswald proceeded to Scotland. The effect of Lucy's presence, the

sentiment he still felt for Corinne, alike gave place to the emotions

that awakened at the sight of scenes where he had dwelt with his

father. He upbraided himself with the dissipations in which he had

spent the last year; fearing that he was no longer worthy to re-enter

the abode he now wished he had never quitted. Alas! after the loss of

life's dearest object, how can we be content with ourselves, unless

in perfect retirement? We cannot mix in society, without in some way

neglecting our worship of the dead. In vain their memory reigns in the

heart's core; we lend ourselves to the activity of the living, which

banishes the thought of death as painful and unavailing. If solitude

prolongs not our regrets, life, as it is, calls back the most feeling

minds, renews their interests, their passions. This imperious necessity

is one of the sad conditions of human nature; and although decreed by

Providence, that man may support the idea of death, both for himself

and others, yet often, in the midst of our enjoyments, we feel remorse

at being still capable of them, and seem to hear a resigned, affecting

voice asking us: "Have you, whom I so loved, forgotten me?" Oswald felt

not now the despair he had suffered on his first return home after

his father's death, but a melancholy, deepened by his perceiving that

time had accustomed every one else to the loss he still deplored. The

servants no longer thought it their duty to speak of the late lord; his

place in the rank of life was filled; children grow up as substitutes

for their sires. Oswald shut himself in his father's room, for lonely

meditation. "Oh, human destiny!" he sighed, "what wouldst thou have? so

much life perish? so many thoughts expire? No, no, my only friend hears

me, yet sees my tears, is present--our immortal spirits still commune.

Oh, God! be thou my guide. Those iron souls, that seem immovable

as nature's rocks, pity not the vacillations and repentance of the

sensitive, the conscientious, who cannot take one step without the fear

of straying from the right. They may bid duty lead them, but duty's

self would vanish from their eyes, if _Thou_ revealedst not the truth

to their hearts."

In the evening Oswald roved through the favorite walks of his father.

Who has not hoped, in the ardor of his prayers, that the one dear shade

would reappear, and miracles be wrought by the force of love? Vain

trust! beyond the tomb we can see nothing. These endless uncertainties

occupy not the vulgar, but the nobler the mind the more incontrollably

is it involved in speculations. While Oswald wandered thus absorbed,

he did, indeed, behold a venerable man slowly advancing towards him.

Such a sight at such a time and place, took a strong effect; but he

soon recognized his father's friend, Mr. Dickson, and with an affection

which he never felt for him before.

CHAPTER VIII.

This gentleman in no way equalled the parent of Oswald, but he was with

him at his death; and having been born in the same year, he seemed to

linger behind but to carry Lord Nevil some tidings of his son. Oswald

offered him his arm as they went up stairs; and felt a pleasure in

paying attention to age, however little resembling that of his father.

Mr. Dickson remembered Oswald's birth, and hesitated not to speak his

mind on all that concerned his young friend, strongly reprimanding his

connection with Corinne; but his weak arguments would have gained less

ascendency over Oswald's mind than those of Lady Edgarmond, had he not

handed him the letter to which she alluded. With considerable tremor he

read as follows:--

"Will you forgive me, my dear friend, if I propose a change

of plan in the union of our families? My son is more than

a year younger than your eldest daughter; will it not be

better, therefore, that he should wait for the little Lucy?

I might confine myself to the subject of age; but, as I knew

Miss Edgarmond's when first I named my wishes, I should

deem myself wanting in confidence, if I did not tell you my

true reasons for desiring that this marriage may not take

place. We have known each other for twenty years, and may

speak frankly of our children, especially while they are

young enough to be improved by our opinions. Your daughter

is a charming girl, but I seem to be gazing on one of

those Grecian beauties, who, of old, enchanted and subdued

the world. Do not be offended by this comparison. She can

have received from you none but the purest principles;

yet she certainly loves to produce an effect, and create

a sensation: she has more genius than self-love; such

talents as hers necessarily engender a taste for display;

and I know no theatre that could suffice the activity of a

spirit, whose impetuous fancy, and ardent feelings, break

through each word she utters. She would inevitably wean my

son from England; for such a woman could not be happy here:

only Italy can content her. She must have that free life

which is guided but by fantasy: our domestic country habits

must thwart her every taste. A man born in this happy land

ought to be in all things English, and fulfil the duties

to which he is so fortunately called. In countries whose

political institutions give men such honorable opportunities

for public action, the women should bloom in the shade: can

you expect so distinguished a person as your daughter to

be satisfied with such a lot? Take my advice. Marry her in

Italy; her religion and manners suit that country. If my

son should wed her, I am sure it would be from love, for no

one can be more engaging: to please her, he would endeavor

to introduce foreign customs into his establishment, and

would soon lose his national character, those prejudices,

if you please to call them so, which unite us with each

other, and render us a body free but indissoluble, or which

can only be broken up by the death of its last associate.

My son could not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy:

he is sensitive, even to weakness; and his expatriation,

if I lived to see it, would render me most miserable; not

merely as deprived of my son, but as knowing him lost to the

glory of serving his native land. Is it worthy a mountaineer

to drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of Italy? A

Scot become the _cicisbeo_ of his own wife, if not of some

other man's? Neither the guide nor the prop of his family!

I even rejoice that Oswald is now in France, and still

unknown to a lady whose empire over him would be too great.

I dare conjure you, my dear friend, should I die before his

marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daughter until

Lucy be of an age to fix his affections. Let him learn my

wishes, if requisite. I know he will respect them--the more

if I should then be removed from this life. Give all your

attention, I entreat you, to his union with Lucy. Child as

she is, her features, look, and voice, all express the most

endearing modesty. She will be a true Englishwoman, and may

constitute the happiness of my boy. If I do not live to

witness their felicity, I shall exult over it in heaven;

and when we reunite there, my dear friend, our prayers and

benedictions will protect our children still.

"Ever yours,

"NEVIL."

After reading this, Oswald remained silent, and left Mr. Dickson

time to continue his long discourse without interruption. He admired

the judgment of his friend, who, nevertheless, he said, was far from

anticipating the reprehensible life Miss Edgarmond had since led: a

marriage between Oswald and herself now, he added, would be an eternal

insult to Lord Nevil's memory; who, it appeared, during his son's fatal

residence in France, had passed a whole summer at Lady Edgarmond's,

solacing himself by superintending the education of his favorite Lucy.

In fact without either artifice or forbearance, Mr. Dickson attacked

the heart of Oswald through all the avenues of sensibility. Thus

everything conspired against the absent Corinne, who had no means, save

letters, for reviving from time to time, the tenderness of Oswald.

She had to contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the

exhortation of his friends in favor of resolutions so easy to adopt,

as they led him towards a budding, beauty, whose every charm seemed to

harmonize with the calm, chaste hopes of a domestic lot.

BOOK XVII.

CORINNE IN SCOTLAND.

CHAPTER I.

Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the Brenta: she could

not quit the scenes in which she had last met Oswald--and also hoped

that she should here receive her letters earlier than at Rome. Prince

Castel Forte had written, begging leave to visit her; but she refused.

The friendship existing between them commanded mutual confidence; and

had he striven to detach her from her love--had he told her what she so

often told herself--that absence must decrease Nevil's attachment, one

inconsiderate word would have been a dagger to her heart. She wished to

see no one; yet it is not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent,

and its situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude require

peace of mind; if that be lost, forced gayety, however troublesome,

is more serviceable than meditation. If we could trace madness to

its source, we should surely find that it originated in the power

of one single thought, which excluded all mental variety. Corinne's

imagination consumed herself, unless diverted by external excitement.

What a life now succeeded that which she had led for nearly a year,

with the man of her heart's choice forever with her, as her most

appreciating companion, her tenderest friend, and fondest lover! Now,

all was barren around and gloomy within her. The only interesting event

was the arrival of a letter from _him_; and the irregularity of the

post, during winter, every day tormented her with expectations, often

disappointed. Each morning she walked on the banks of the canal, now

covered by large-leaved water-lilies, watching for the black gondola,

which she had learned to distinguish afar off. How did her heart

beat, as she perceived it! Sometimes the messenger would answer: "No

letters for you, madame," and carelessly proceeded to other matters,

as if nothing were so simple as to have _no_ letters; another time he

would say: "Yes, madame, here are some." She ran over them all with

a trembling hand: if the well-known characters of Oswald met not her

eye, the day was terrible, the night sleepless the morrow redoubled

her anxiety and suspense. "Surely," she thought, "he might write more

frequently;" and her next letter reproached his silence. He justified

himself; but his style had already lost some of its tenderness:

instead of expressing his own solicitude, it seemed but attempting to

dissipate hers. This change did not escape her: day and night would

she reperuse a particular phrase, seeking some new interpretation on

which to build a few days' composure. This state shattered her nerves:

she became superstitious. Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may

draw presages from everything. One day in every week she she went to

Venice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some hours earlier:

this merely varied the tortures of waiting; and in a short time she

conceived as great a horror for every object she encountered on her

way, as if they had been the spectres of her own thoughts, reappearing

clothed in the most dreadful aspects. Once, on entering the church of

St. Mark, she remembered how, on her arrival in Venice, the idea had

occurred to her that perhaps, ere she departed, Oswald would lead her

thither to call her his in sight of Heaven. She gave way once more to

this illusion; saw him approach the altar; heard him vow before his God

to love her forever; they knelt together, and she received the nuptial

crown. The organ, then playing, and the lights that shone through the

aisle, gave life to her vision; and for a moment she felt not the cruel

void of absence: but suddenly a dreary murmur succeeded--she turned,

and beheld a bier brought into the church. She staggered; her sight

almost failed; and from that moment she felt convinced that her love

for Oswald would lead her but to the grave.

CHAPTER II.

Lord Nevil was now the most unhappy and irresolute of men. He must

either break the heart of Corinne, or outrage the memory of his father.

Cruel alternative! to escape which he called on death a thousand times

a day. At last, he once more resorted to his habitual procrastination,

telling himself that he would go to Venice, since he could not resolve

to write Corinne the truth, and make her his judge; but then he

daily expected that his regiment would embark. He was free from all

engagement with Lucy. He believed it his duty not to marry Corinne;

but in what other way could he pass his life with her? Could he desert

his country? or bring her to it, and ruin her fair name forever? He

resolved to hide from her the obstacles which he had encountered

from her step-mother, because he still hoped ultimately to surmount

them. Manifold causes rendered his letters brief, or filled them with

subjects remote from his future prospects. Any one, save Corinne,

would have guessed all; but passion rendered her at once quick-sighted

and credulous. In such a state, we see nothing in a natural manner:

but discover what is concealed, while blind to that which should

seem clearest. We cannot brook the idea of suffering so much without

some extraordinary cause; we will not confess to ourselves that such

despair may be produced by the simplest circumstances in life. Though

Oswald pitied her, and blamed himself, his correspondence betrayed an

irritation which it did not explain; wildly reproaching her for what

he endured, as if she had not been far the most unfortunate. This tone

deprived her of all mastery over herself. Her mind was disordered by

the most fatal images: she could not believe that the being capable of

writing with such abrupt and heartless bitterness was the same Oswald

she had known so generous, so tender. She felt a resistless desire to

see and speak with him once more. "Let me hear _him_ tell me," she

raved, "that it is he who thus mercilessly stabs her whose least pain

once so strongly afflicted him; let him say so, and I submit: but some

infernal power seems to inspire this language; it is not Oswald who

writes thus to _me_. They have slandered me to him: some treachery must

be exerted, or I could not be used thus." She adopted the resolution

of going to Scotland, if we may so call the impulse of an imperious

grief, which would fain alter its present situation at all hazards. She

dared not write nor speak to any one on this subject, still flattering

herself that some fortunate change would prevent her acting on a plan,

which, nevertheless, soothed her imagination, and forced her to look

forward. To read was now impossible: music thrilled her to agony: and

the charms of nature induced a reverie that redoubled her distress.

This creature, once so animated, now passed whole days in motionless

silence. Her internal pangs were but betrayed by a mortal paleness: her

eyes were frequently fixed upon her watch, though she knew not why she

should wish one hour to succeed another, since not one of them could

bring her aught, save restless nights and despairing days.

One evening, she was informed that a female was earnestly requesting

to see her: she consented; and the woman entered her presence dressed

in black, and veiled, to conceal, as much as possible, a face deformed

by the most frightful malady. Thus wronged by nature, she consoled

herself by collecting alms for the poor; demanding them nobly, and

with an affecting confidence of success. Corinne gave her a large sum,

entreating her prayers in return. The poor being, resigned to her own

fate, was astonished to behold a person so lovely, young, rich, and

celebrated, a prey to sorrow. "My God, madame," she cried, "I would you

were as calm as I!" What an address from such an object to the most

brilliant woman in Italy! Alas! the power of love is too vast in souls

like hers. Happy are they who consecrate to Heaven the sentiments no

earthly ties can merit. That time was not yet come for poor Corinne;

she still deceived herself, still sought for bliss; she prayed, indeed,

but not submissively. Her peerless talents, the glory they had won,

gave her too great an interest in herself. It is only by detaching our

hearts from all the world that we can renounce the thing we love. Every

other sacrifice must precede this: life may be long a desert ere the

fire that made it so is quenched. At last, in the midst of this sad

indecision, Corinne received a letter from Oswald, telling her that

his regiment would embark in six weeks, and that, as its colonel, he

could not profit by this delay to visit Venice without injuring his

reputation. There was but just time for Corinne to reach England, ere

he must leave it, perhaps forever. This thought decided her; she was

not ignorant of her own rashness; she judged herself more severely than

any one else could. Pity her, then! What woman has a right to "cast the

first stone" at the unfortunate sister, who justifies not her fault,

hopes for no pleasure, but flies from one misfortune to another, as

if driven on by persecuting spirits? Her letter to Castel Forte thus

concludes: "Adieu, my faithful protector! Adieu, my friends in Rome!

with whom I passed such joyous, easy days. It is done--all is over.

Fate has stricken me. I feel the wound is mortal. I struggle still,

but soon shall fall. I must see _him_ again. I am not answerable for

myself. A storm is in my breast such as I cannot govern; but I draw

near the term at which all will cease. This is the last act of my

history: it will end in penitence and death. Oh, wild confusion of

the human heart! Even now, while I am obeying the will of passion, I

see the shades of evening in the distance, I hear a voice divine that

whispers me: 'Still these fond agitations, hapless wretch! the abode of

endless rest awaits thee.' O God! grant me the presence of mine Oswald

once more, but one last moment! The very memory of his features now is

darkened by despair; but is there not something heavenly in his look?

Did not the air become more pure, more brilliant, as he approached?

You, my friend, have seen him with me, have witnessed his kind cares,

and the respect with which he inspired others for the woman of his

choice. How can I live without him? Pardon my ingratitude: ought I

thus to requite thy disinterested constancy? But I am no longer worthy

any blessing; and might pass for insane, had I not still the miserable

consciousness of mine own madness. Farewell, then--yes, farewell!"

CHAPTER III.

How pitiable is the feeling, delicate woman, who commits a great

imprudence for a man whose love she knows inferior to her own! She has

but herself to be her support. If she has risked repose and character

to do some signal service for her idol, she may be envied. Sweet is the

self-devotion that braves all danger to save a life that is dear to

us, or solace the distress which rends a heart responsive to our own.

But thus to travel unknown lands, to arrive without being expected,

to blush before the one beloved, for the unasked proof thus given of

his power--painful degradation! What would it be if we thus involved

the happiness of others, and outraged our duty to more sacred bonds?

Corinne was free. She sacrificed but her own peace and glory. Her

conduct was irrational, indeed, but it could overcloud no destiny save

hers.[1]

On landing in England, Corinne learned from the papers that Lord

Nevil's departure was still delayed. She saw no society in London

except the family of a banker, to whom she had been recommended _under

a false name_. He was interested in her at first sight, and enjoined

his wife and daughter to pay her all the attentions in their power. She

fell dangerously ill, and, for a fortnight, her new friends watched

over her with the most tender care. She heard that Lord Nevil was in

Scotland, but must shortly rejoin his regiment in London. She knew

not how to announce herself, as she had not written to him respecting

her intentions--indeed, Oswald had not received a letter from her for

three months. He mentally accused her of infidelity, as if he had any

right to complain. On his return to town, he went first to his agents,

where he hoped to find letters from Italy: there were none; and, as

he was musing over this silence, he encountered Mr. Edgarmond, who

asked him for news of Corinne. "I hear nothing of her," he replied,

irritably.--"That I can easily understand," added Edgarmond: "these

Italians always forget a foreigner, once out of sight; one ought never

to heed it; they would be too delightful if they united constancy with

genius: it is but fair that our own women should have some advantage!"

He squeezed Oswald's hand as he said this, and took leave, as he was

just starting for Wales; but his few words had pierced their hearer's

heart.--"I am wrong," he said, "to wish she should regret me, since I

cannot constitute her happiness; but so soon to forget! This blights

the past as well as the future."

Despite his father's will, he had resolved not to see Lucy more; and

even scorned himself for the impression she had made on him. Condemned

as he was to defeat the hopes of Corinne, he felt that, at least, he

ought to preserve his heart's faith inviolately hers: no duty urged him

to forfeit that. He renewed his solicitations in her cause, by letters

to Lady Edgarmond, who did not even deign to answer them: meanwhile,

Mr. Dickson assured him that the only way of melting her to his wishes

would be--marrying her daughter; whose establishment, she feared,

Corinne might frustrate, if she resumed her name, and was received

by her family. Fate had hitherto spared her the pang of suspecting

Oswald's interest in her sister. Never was she herself more worthy of

him than now. During her illness, the candid, simple beings by whom she

was surrounded, had given her a sincere taste for English habits and

manners. The few persons she saw were anything but distinguished, yet

possessed an estimable strength, and justice of mind. Their affection

for her was less professing than that to which she had been accustomed,

but evinced with every opportunity by fresh good offices. The austerity

of Lady Edgarmond, the tedium of a small country town, had cruelly

misled her as to the kindness, the true nobility to be found in the

country she had abandoned: unluckily, she now became attached to it

under such circumstances, that it would have been better for her own

peace had she never been untaught her dislike.

[1] The Corinnes of this world care little how they pain the Castel

Fortes. The mere esteem of such a man would have been worth even the

love of twenty Oswalds.--TR.

CHAPTER IV.

The banker's family, who were forever studying how to prove their

friendship, pressed Corinne to see Mrs. Siddons perform Isabella, in

the Fatal Marriage, one of the characters in which that great actress

best displayed her admirable genius. Corinne refused for some time: at

last, she remembered that Lord Nevil had often compared her manner of

recitation with that of Mrs. Siddons: she was therefore anxious to see

her, and thickly veiled, went to a small box, whence she could see all,

herself unseen. She knew not if Oswald was in London, but feared to be

recognized by any one who might have met her in Italy. The commanding

beauty and deep sensibility of the heroine so riveted her attention,

that, during the earliest acts, her eyes were never turned from the

stage.

English declamation is better calculated than any other to touch the

soul, especially when such fine talents give it all its power and

originality. It is less artificial, less conventional than that of

France. The impressions produced are more immediate--for thus would

true despair express itself; the plots and versification of English

dramas too are less remote from real life, and their effect more

heart-rending. It requires far higher genius to become a great actor

in France, so little liberty being left to individual manner, so much

influence attached to general rules;[1] but in England you may risk

anything, if inspired by nature. The long groans that appear ridiculous

if described, make those shudder who hear them. Mrs. Siddons, the most

nobly-mannered woman who ever adorned a theatre, lost none of her

dignity by prostrating herself on the earth. There is no action but may

become graceful, if prompted by an impulse which rises from the depths

of the breast, and lords it over the mind which conceives it still more

than over its witnesses. Various nations have their different styles of

tragic acting, but the expression of grief is understood from one end

of the world to the other; and, from the savage to the king, there is

some similarity between all men while they are really suffering.

Between the fourth and fifth acts, Corinne observed that all eyes

were turned towards a box, in which she beheld Lady Edgarmond and

her daughter; she could not doubt that it was Lucy, much as the last

seven years had embellish her form. The death of a rich relation had

obliged Lady Edgarmond to visit London, and settle the succession of

his fortune. Lucy was more dressed than usual;[2] and it was long since

so beauteous a girl had been seen, even in England, where the women

are so lovely. Corinne felt a melancholy surprise: she thought it

impossible for Oswald to resist that countenance. On comparing herself

with her sister, she was so conscious of her own inferiority, that she

exaggerated (if such exaggeration be possible) the charm of that fair

complexion, those golden curls, and innocent blue eyes--that image

of life's spring! She felt almost degraded in setting her own mental

acquirements in competition with gifts thus lavished by Heaven itself.

Suddenly, in an opposite box, she perceived Lord Nevil, whose gaze was

fixed on Lucy. What a moment for Corinne! She once more beheld that

face, for which she had so long searched her memory every instant, as

if the image could be effaced--she beheld it again--absorbed by the

beauty of another. Oswald could not guess the presence of Corinne;

but if his eye had even wandered towards her, she might, from such a

chance, have drawn a happy omen.

Mrs. Siddons reappeared, and Lord Nevil looked but on her. Corinne

breathed again, trusting that mere curiosity had drawn his glance

towards Lucy. The tragedy became every moment more affecting; and the

fair girl was bathed in tears, which she strove to conceal, by retiring

to the back of her box. Nevil noticed this with increased interest.

At last the dreadful instant came when Isabella, laughing at the

fruitless efforts of those who would restrain her, stabs herself to

the heart. That despairing laugh is the most difficult and powerful

effect which tragic acting can produce; its bitter irony moves one to

more than tears. How terrible must be the suffering that inspires so

barbarous a joy, and in the sight of our own blood, feels the ferocious

pleasure that one might experience when taking full revenge upon some

savage foe. It was evident that Lucy's agitation had alarmed her

mother, who turned anxiously towards her. Oswald rose, as if he would

have flown to them; but he soon reseated himself, and Corinne felt some

relief; yet she sighed; "My sister Lucy, once so dear to me, has a

feeling heart; why should I then wish to deprive her of a blessing she

may enjoy without impediment, without any sacrifice on Oswald's part?"

When the play concluded, Corinne stayed until the parties who were

leaving the house had gone, that she might avoid recognition; she

concealed herself near the door of her box, where she could see what

passed near her. As soon as Lucy came out, a crowd assembled to look

on her; and exclamations in praise of her beauty were heard from _all

sides_, which greatly embarrassed her; the infirm Lady Edgarmond

was ill able to brave the throng, despite the cares of her child,

and the politeness shown them both; but they knew no one, therefore

no gentleman dared accost them. Lord Nevil, seeing their situation,

hastened to offer each an arm. Lucy, blushing and downcast, availed

herself of this attention. They passed close by Corinne, whom Oswald

little suspected of witnessing a sight so painful: he was proud of thus

escorting one of the handsomest girls in England through the numerous

admirers who followed her steps.[3]

[1] Talma, having passed some years in London, blended the charms of

each country's tragic acting with admirable talent.

[2] If Englishwomen ever do go into public immediately after the death

of a near relation, it must be in deep mourning. Corinne saw these

wonders very plainly, considering that Lady Edgarmond and Lucy sat on

the same side of the house with herself; which must have been the case,

by her calling Oswald's an opposite box.--TR.

[3] If so scrupulous a person as Lady Edgarmond would take her daughter

to a theatre without male protection, she could not, fortunately, have

been exposed to _all_ these annoyances. Our private boxes are few. Each

side has its own passage and staircase. Oswald might make his way from

one to the other; but if all the individuals on one side left the house

as soon as the tragedy concluded, they could not, after quitting their

boxes, be thus seen by the parties opposite. I have vainly endeavored

to clear this obscurity.--TR.

CHAPTER V.

Corinne returned to her dwelling in cruel disquiet; not knowing what

steps to take, how to apprise Nevil of her arrival, nor what to say in

defence of her motives; for every instant lessened her confidence in

his love: sometimes it seemed as if the man she sought to see again

were some passionately beloved stranger, who could not even recognize

her. She sent to his house the next evening, and was informed that he

had gone to Lady Edgarmond's; the same answer was brought her on the

following day, with tidings that her ladyship was ill, and would return

to Northumberland on her recovery. Corinne waited for her removal

ere she let Oswald know she was in England. Every evening she walked

by her step-mother's residence, and saw his carriage at its door. An

inexpressible oppression seized on her heart: yet she daily persevered,

and daily received the same shock. She erred, however, in supposing

that Oswald was there as the suitor of Lucy.

As he led Lady Edgarmond to her carriage, after the play, she told

him that Corinne was concerned in the will of their late kinsman; and

begged that he would write to Italy on the arrangements made in the

affair. As Oswald promised to call, he fancied he felt the hand of

Lucy tremble. Corinne's silence persuaded him that he was no longer

dear to her; and the emotion of this young girl gave him the idea that

she was interested in him. Yet he thought not of breaking his promise

to Corinne: the ring she held was a pledge that he would never marry

another without her consent. He sought her step-mother next day, merely

on her account; but Lady Edgarmond was so ill, and her daughter so

uneasy at finding herself in London without another relative near her,

without even knowing to what physician she should apply, that, in duty

to the friends of his father, Oswald felt he ought to devote his time

to their service. The cold, proud Lady Edgarmond had never softened

so much as she did now; letting him visit her every day without his

having said a word that could be construed into a proposal for her

daughter, whose beauty, rank, and fortune rendered her one of the first

matches in England. Since her appearance in public, her address had

been eagerly inquired, and her door besieged by the nobility; yet her

mother went nowhere--received no one but Lord Nevil. Could he avoid

feeling flattered by this silent and delicate generosity, which trusted

him without conditions, without complaint? yet every time he went did

he fear that his presence would be interpreted into an engagement.

He would have ceased to go thither as soon as Corinne's business was

settled, but that Lady Edgarmond underwent a relapse, more dangerous

than her first attack; and had she died, Lucy would have had no friend

beside her but himself. She had never breathed a word that could assure

him of her preference; yet he fancied he detected it in the light but

sudden changes of her cheek, the abrupt fall of her lashes, and the

rapidity of her breathing. He studied her young heart with tender

interest; and her reserve left him always uncertain as to the nature

of her sentiments. The highest eloquence of passion cannot entirely

satisfy the fancy; we desire something beyond it; and not finding that,

must either cool or sate; while the faint light which we perceive

through clouds, long keeps our curiosity in suspense, and seems to

promise a whole future of new discoveries: this expectation is never

gratified; for when we know what all this mystery hid, its charm is

gone, and we awake to regret the candid impulses of a more animated

character. How then can we prolong the heart's enchantment, since doubt

and confidence, rapture and misery, alike destroy it in the end? These

heavenly joys belong not to our fate; they never cross our path, save

to remind us of our immortal origin and hopes.

Lady Edgarmond was better; and talked of departing, in two days,

for her estate in Scotland, near that of Lord Nevil, whither he had

purposed going before the embarkation of his regiment: she anticipated

his proposing to accompany her, but he said nothing. Lucy gazed on him

in silence for a moment, then hastily rose, and went to the window:

on some pretext Nevil shortly followed her, and fancied that her lids

were wet with tears: he sighed, and the forgetfulness of which he had

accused Corinne returning to his memory, he asked himself whether this

young creature might not prove more capable of constant love? He wished

to atone for the pain he had inflicted. It is delightful to rekindle

smiles on a countenance so nearly infantine. Grief is out of place,

where even reflection has yet left no trace. There was to be a review

in Hyde Park on the morrow; he therefore entreated Lady Edgarmond to

drive there with her daughter, and afterwards permit his taking a

ride with Lucy beside her carriage. Miss Edgarmond had once said that

she greatly wished to mount a horse, and looked at her mother with

appealing submission: after a little deliberation, the invalid held

out her wasting hand to Oswald, saying: "If you request it, my Lord,

I consent." These words so alarmed him, that he would have abandoned

his own proposal; but that Lucy, with a vivacity she had never before

betrayed, took her mother's hand, and kissed it gratefully. He had not

the courage to deprive an innocent being, who led so lonely a life, of

an amusement she so much desired.

CHAPTER VI.

For a fortnight, Corinne had endured the severest anxiety; every

morning she hesitated whether she should write to Oswald; every evening

she had the inexpressible grief of knowing that he was with Lucy. Her

sufferings made her daily more timid: she blushed to think that he

might not approve the step she had taken. "Perhaps," she often said,

"all thought of Italy is banished from his breast: he no longer needs

in woman a gifted mind or an impassioned heart; all that can please

him now is the angelic beauty of sixteen, the fresh and diffident

soul that consecrates to him its first emotions." Her imagination

was so struck with the advantages of her young sister, that she was

abashed, disarmed, depreciatingly disgusted with herself. Though not

yet eight-and-twenty, she had already reached that era when women sadly

distrust their power to please. Her pride and jealousy contending,

made her defer from day to day the dreaded yet desired moment of her

meeting with Oswald. She learned that his regiment would be reviewed,

and resolved on being present. She thought it probable that Lucy would

be there: if so, she would trust her own eyes to judge the state of

Nevil's heart. At first, she thought of dressing herself with care, and

suddenly appearing before him; but at her toilet, her black hair, her

skin slightly embrowned by the Italian sun, her prominent features, all

discouraged her. She remembered the ethereal aspect of her sister; and,

throwing aside her rich array, assumed a black Venitian garb, covered

her head and figure with the mantle worn in that country, and threw

herself into a coach. In Hyde Park, she found groups of gentlemen,

attired with simple elegance, escorting their fair and modest ladies.

The virtues proper to each sex seemed thus to meet. Scarcely was she

there ere she beheld Oswald at the head of his corps: its men looked

up to him with confidence and devotion. The uniform lent him a more

imposing air than usual, and he reined his charger with perfectly

graceful dexterity. The band played pieces of music at once proud and

sweet, which seemed nobly enjoying the sacrifice of life: among them,

"God save the King," so dear to English hearts; and Corinne exclaimed:

"Respected land! which ought to be my own! why did I ever leave thee?

What matters more or less of personal fame, amid so much true merit?

and what glory could equal that of being called Lord Nevil's worthy

wife?"

The martial instruments recalled to her mind the perils he must brave

so soon. Unseen by him she gazed through her tears, sighing: "Oh, may

he live, though it be not for me! My God! it is Oswald only I implore

thee to preserve!" At this moment Lady Edgarmond's carriage drove up.

Nevil bowed respectfully, and lowered the point of his sword. No one

who looked on Lucy but admired her: Oswald's glances pierced the heart

of Corinne: she knew their meaning well, for such had once been bent on

her. The horses he had lent to Lady Edgarmond passed to and fro with

exquisite speed, while the equipage of Corinne was drawn after these

flying coursers almost as slowly as a hearse. "It was not thus," she

thought, "that I approached the Capitol: no; he has dashed me from my

car of triumph into an abyss of misery. I love him, and the joys of

life are lost. I love him, and the gifts of nature fade. Pardon him,

O my God! when I am gone." Oswald was now close to her vehicle. The

Italian dress caught his eye, and he rode round, in hopes of beholding

the face of this unknown. Her heart beat violently; and all her fear

was that she should faint and be discovered; but she restrained her

feelings; and Lord Nevil relinquished the idea which beset him. When

the review was over, to avoid again attracting his attention, she

alighted, and retired behind the trees, so as not to be observed.

Oswald then went up to Lady Edgarmond, and showed her a very gentle

horse, which his servants had brought hither for Lucy: her mother bade

him be very careful of her. He dismounted, and, hat in hand, conversed

through the carriage door with so feeling an expression, that Corinne

could attribute this regard for the mother to nothing less than an

attachment for the daughter. Lucy left the carriage: a riding habit

charmingly defined the elegant outline of her figure: she wore a black

hat with white plumes--her fair silken locks floating airily about her

smiling face. Oswald placed his hand as her step: she had expected this

service from a domestic, and blushed at receiving it from him; but he

insisted, and at last, she set her little foot in his hand, then sprung

so lightly to her saddle, that she seemed one of those sylphid shapes

which fancy paints in colors so delicate. _She set off at a gallop._

Oswald followed, never losing sight of her: once the horse made a

false step: he instantly checked it, examining the bit and bridle with

the most kind solicitude. Shortly afterwards the animal ran away.

Oswald turned pale as death, spurring his own steed to an incredible

fleetness; in a second he overtook that of Lucy, leaped from his seat,

and threw himself before her. She shuddered in her turn lest she should

harm him; but with one hand he seized her rein, supporting her with the

other, as she gently leaned against him.

What more needed Corinne to convince her of Oswald's love for Lucy? Did

she not see all the signs of interest which formerly he lavished on

herself? Nay, to her eternal despair, did she not read in his eyes a

more revering deference than he had ever shown to her? Twice she drew

the ring from her finger, and was ready to break through the crowd,

that she might throw it at his feet: the hope of dying in this effort

encouraged her resolution; but where is the woman, even born beneath

a southern sky, who does not tremble at attracting the attention of a

crowd? She was returning to her coach; and as she crossed a somewhat

deserted walk, Oswald again noticed the black figure he before had

seen; and it now made a stronger impression on him than at first: he

attributed his emotion to remorse, at having, for the first time,

felt his heart faithless to the image of Corinne; yet he resolved on

starting for Scotland, as his regiment was not to embark for some time.

CHAPTER VII.

From this moment Corinne's reason was affected, and her strength

decayed. She began a letter to Lord Nevil, full of bitter upbraidings,

and then tore it up. "What avail reproaches?" she thought: "could love

be the most pure, most generous of our sentiments, if it were not

involuntary? Another face, another voice, command the secret of his

heart: all is said that can be said." She began a new letter, depicting

the monotony he would find in a union with Lucy; essayed to prove

that, without a perfect harmony of soul and mind, no happiness could

last; but she destroyed this paper more hastily than the other. "If

he already knows not my opinions, I cannot teach him now," she said;

"besides, ought I to speak thus of my sister? is she so greatly my

inferior as I think? and, if she be, is it for me, who, like a mother,

pressed her in childhood to my heart, to point out her deficiencies?

no, no! we must not thus value our own inclinations above all price.

This life, full as it is of wishes, must have an end; and, even before

death, meditation may wean us from its selfishness." Once more she

resumed her pen, to tell but of her misery; yet, in expressing it, she

felt such pity for herself, that her tears flowed over every word.

"No," she said again, "I cannot send this: if he resisted it, I should

hate him; if he yielded, how know I but it would be by a sacrifice?

even after which he would be haunted by the memory of another. I had

better see him, speak with him, and return his ring." She folded it

in paper, on which she only wrote, "You are free;" and, putting it

in her bosom, awaited the evening ere she could approach. In open

day, she would have blushed before all she met; and yet she sought to

anticipate the moment of his visit to Lady Edgarmond. At six o'clock,

therefore, she set forth, trembling like a condemned criminal--we so

much fear those we love, when once our confidence is lost. The object

of a passionate affection is, in the eyes of woman, either her surest

protector or most dreaded master. Corinne stopped her equipage at Lord

Nevil's door, and in a hesitating voice asked the porter if he was at

home; but the man replied: "My Lord set out for Scotland half an hour

ago, madam." This intelligence pressed heavily on her heart: she had

shrunk from the thought of meeting Oswald, but her soul had surmounted

that inexpressible emotion. The effort was made: she believed herself

about to hear his voice, and now must take some new resolution ere she

could regain it; wait some days longer, and stoop to one step more.

Yet, at all hazards, she must see him again; and the next day she

departed for Scotland.

CHAPTER VIII.

Ere quitting London, Nevil again called on his agents; and, on finding

no letter from Corinne, bitterly asked himself if he ought to give up

the certainty of permanent domestic peace for one, who, perhaps, no

longer remembered him. Yet he decided on writing once more to inquire

the cause of this silence, and assure her that, till she sent back

his ring, he would never be the husband of another. He completed his

journey in a very gloomy mood, loving Lucy almost unconsciously; for

he had, as yet, scarcely heard her speak twenty words--yet regretting

Corinne, and the circumstances which separated him from her; by fits

yielding to the innocent beauty of the one, and retracing the brilliant

grace or sublime eloquence of the other. Had he but known that Corinne

loved him better than ever, that she had quitted everything to follow

him, he would never have seen Lucy more; but he believed himself

forgotten, and told his heart that a cool manner might oft conceal deep

feelings. He was deceived. Impassioned spirits must betray themselves a

thousand ways: that which can _always_ be controlled must needs be weak.

Another event added to his interest in Lucy. In returning to his

estates, he passed so near her mother's, that curiosity urged him to

visit it. He asked to be shown the room in which Miss Edgarmond usually

studied: it was filled by remembrances of the time his father had

passed there during his own absence in France. On the spot where, a few

months before his death, the late Lord Nevil had given her lessons,

Lucy had erected a marble pedestal, on which was graven, "To the memory

of my second father." A book lay on the table. Oswald opened it, and

found a collection of his father's thoughts, who in the first page

had written: "To her who has solaced me in my sorrows; the maid whose

angelic soul will constitute the glory and happiness of her husband."

With what emotion Oswald read these lines! in which the opinion of the

revered dead was so warmly expressed. He interpreted Lucy's silence

on this subject into a delicacy which feared to extort his vows by an

idea of duty. "It was she, then," he cried, "who softened the pangs I

dealt him; and shall I desert her while her mother is dying, and she

has no comforter but myself? Ah, Corinne! brilliant and admired as thou

art, thou dost not, like Lucy, stand in need of one devoted friend!"

Alas! she was no longer brilliant, no longer admired, wandering from

town to town, without overtaking the being for whom she had lost all,

and whom she could not forget. She was taken ill at an inn, half-way

between London and Edinburgh, and, in spite of all her efforts, unable

to continue her journey. She often thought, during her long nights of

suffering, that if she died there, none but Thérésina would know the

name to inscribe upon her tomb. What a changed fate for the woman who

could not leave her house in Italy without being followed by a host of

worshippers! Why should one single feeling thus despoil a whole life?

After a week of intense agony, she resumed her route: so many painful

fears mingled with the hope of seeing Oswald, that her expectation was

but a sad anxiety. She designed to rest a few hours on her father's

land, where his tomb had been erected, never having been there since;

indeed, she only spent one month on this estate with Lord Edgarmond,

the happiest portion of her stay in England. These recollections

inspired her with a wish to revisit their scene. She knew not that her

step-mother was there already. Some miles from the house, perceiving

that a carriage had been overturned, she stopped her own, and saw

an old gentleman extricated from that which had broken down, much

alarmed by the shock. Corinne hurried to his assistance, and offered

him a share of her conveyance to the neighboring town: he accepted it

gratefully, announcing himself as Mr. Dickson: she remembered that

Nevil had often mentioned that name, and directed the conversation to

the only subject which interested her in life. Mr. Dickson was the

most willing gossip in the world; and ignorant who his companion was,

believed her an English lady, with no private interest in the questions

she asked, therefore told her all he knew most minutely: her attentions

had conciliated him; and, in return, he trusted that his confidence

might entertain her. He described how he had informed Lord Nevil of

his parent's wishes, and repeated an extract from the late Lord's

letter, often exclaiming: "_He_ expressly forbade Oswald's marriage

with this Italian--and they cannot brave his will without insulting his

memory." Mr. Dickson added, that Oswald loved Lucy, was beloved by her;

that her mother strongly desired their union, but that this foreign

engagement prevented it. "How!" said Corinne, striving to disguise her

agitation: "do you think _that_the sole barrier to his happiness with

Miss Edgarmond?"--"I am sure of it," he answered, delighted with her

inquiries. "It is but three days since Lord Nevil said to me: 'If I

were free, I would marry Lucy.'"--"If he were free!" sighed Corinne.

At that moment, the carriage stopped at the hotel to which she had

promised Mr. Dickson her escort. He thanked her, and begged to know

where he might see her again. She wrung his hand, without power to

speak, and left him. Late as it was, she resolved that evening to visit

the grave of her father. The disorder of her mind rendered this sacred

pilgrimage more necessary than ever.

CHAPTER IX.

Lady Edgarmond had been two days on her estate, where, that night, she

had invited all her neighbors and tenants; and there was Oswald with

Lucy, when Corinne arrived. She saw many carriages in the avenue; and

alighted on the spot where her father had once treated her with such

tenderness. What a contrast between those days, when she had thought

herself so unfortunate, and her present situation! Thus are we punished

for our fancied woes, by real calamities, which but too well teach us

what true sorrow means. Corinne bade her servant ask the cause of all

this light and bustle. A domestic replied: "Lady Edgarmond gives a ball

to-night; which my master, Lord Nevil, has opened with the heiress."

Corinne shuddered; but a painful curiosity prompted her to approach the

place where so much misery threatened her: and motioning for her people

to withdraw, she entered the open gates alone; the obscurity permitted

her to walk the park unseen. It was ten o'clock. Oswald had been Lucy's

partner in those English country dances, which they recommence five

or six times in the evening--the same gentleman always dancing with

the same lady, and the greatest gravity sometimes reigning over this

party of pleasure. Lucy danced nobly, but without vivacity. The feeling

which absorbed her added to her natural seriousness. As the whole

country was inquisitive to know whether she loved Oswald, the unusually

observant looks she met, prevented her ever raising her eyes to his;

and her embarrassment was such, that she could scarcely hear or see

anything. This deeply affected him at first; but as it never varied, he

soon began to weary a little; and compared this long range of men and

women, and their monotonous music, with the animated airs and graceful

dances of Italy. These reflections plunged him into a reverie; and

Corinne might yet have tasted some moments of happiness could she have

guessed his thoughts; but, like a stranger on her paternal soil, alone,

though so near the man she had hoped to call her husband, she roved at

hazard through the dark walks of grounds she once might have deemed

her own. The earth seemed failing beneath her feet; and the fever of

despair alone supplied her with strength: perhaps she might meet Oswald

in the garden, she thought, though scarce knowing what she now desired.

The mansion was built on an eminence; a river ran at its base; there

were many trees on one bank; the other was formed of rocks, covered

with briers. Corinne drew near the water, whose murmur blended with

the distant music: the gay lamps were reflected on its surface; while

the pale light of the moon alone irradiated the wilds on the opposite

side. She thought of Hamlet, in which a spectre wanders round the

festal palace. One step, and this forsaken woman might have found

eternal oblivion. "To-morrow," she cried, "when he strays here with a

band of joyous friends, if his triumphant steps encountered the remains

of her who was once so dear to him, would he not suffer something

like what I bear now? would not his grief avenge me? yet, no, no! it

is not vengeance I would seek in death, only repose." Silently she

contemplated this stream, flowing in rapid regularity; fair nature!

better ordered than the human soul. She remembered the day on which

Nevil had saved the drowning man. "How good he was then!" she wept

forth, "and may be still: why blame him for my woes? he may not guess

them--perhaps if he could see me----" She determined, in the midst of

this fête, to demand a moment's interview with Lord Nevil; and walked

towards the house, under the impulse of a newly adopted decision, which

succeeds to long uncertainty; but as she approached it, such a tremor

seized her, that she was obliged to sit down on a stone bench which

faced the windows. The throng of rustics, assembled to look in upon

the dancers, prevented her being seen. Oswald, at this moment, came

to a balcony, to breathe the fresh evening air. Some roses that grew

there reminded him of Corinne's favorite perfume, and he started. This

long entertainment tired him, accustomed as he had been to her good

taste and intelligence: and he felt that it was only in domestic life

he could find pleasure with such a companion as Lucy. All that in the

least degree belonged to the world of poetry and the fine arts bade him

regret Corinne. While he was in this mood, a fellow-guest joined him,

and his adorer once more heard him speak. What inexplicable sensations

are awakened by the voice we love! What a confusion of softness and of

dread! There are impressions of such force, that our poor feeble nature

is terrified at itself, while we experience them.

"Don't you think this a charming ball?" asked the gentleman.--"Yes,"

returned Oswald, abstractedly, "yes, indeed!" and he sighed. That sigh,

that melancholy tone, thrilled Corinne's heart with joy. She thought

herself secure of regaining his, of again being understood by him,

and rose, precipitately, to bid a servant call Lord Nevil; had she

obeyed her inclination, how different had been the destiny of both!

But at that instant Lucy came to the window; and seeing through the

darkness of the garden a female simply drest in white, her curiosity

was kindled. She leaned forward, and gazed attentively, believing that

she recognized the features of her sister, who, she thought, had been

for seven years dead. The terror this sight caused her was so great

that she fainted. Every one hastened to her aid; Corinne could find no

servant to bear her message, and withdrew into deeper shade, to avoid

remark.

Lucy dared not disclose what had alarmed her; but as her mother had,

from infancy, instilled into her mind the strongest sense of devotion,

she was persuaded that the image of her sister had appeared, gliding

before her to their father's tomb, as if to reproach her for holding

a fête in that scene ere she had fulfilled her sacred duty to his

honored dust: as soon as she was secure from observation, she left the

ball. Corinne, astonished at seeing her alone in the garden, imagined

that Oswald would soon follow her, and that perhaps he had besought

a private meeting to obtain her leave for naming his suit to her

mother. This thought kept her motionless; but she saw that Lucy bent

her steps towards a small grove, which she well knew must lead to Lord

Edgarmond's grave; and, accusing herself of not having earlier borne

thither her own regrets, followed her sister at some distance, unseen.

She soon perceived the black sarcophagus raised over the remains of

their parent. Filial tenderness overpowered her; she supported herself

against a tree. Lucy also paused, and bent her head respectfully.

Corinne was ready to discover herself, and, in their father's name,

demand her rank and her betrothed; but the fair girl made a few hurried

steps towards the tomb, and the victim's courage failed.

There is such timidity, even in the most impetuous female heart,

that a trifle will restrain as a trifle can excite it. Lucy knelt,

removed the garland which had bound her hair, and raised her eyes to

heaven with an angelic appeal: her face was softly illumined by the

moonbeams, and Corinne's heart melted with the purest generosity. She

contemplated the chaste and pious expression of that almost childish

visage, and remembered how she had watched over it in infancy: her

own youth was waning, while Lucy had before her a long futurity, that

ought not to be troubled by any recollections which she might shame

at confessing, either before the world or to her own conscience. "If

I accost her," thought Corinne, "that soul, so peaceful now, will be

disturbed, perhaps, forever. I have already borne so much, that I can

suffer on; but the innocent Lucy would pass, in a moment from perfect

calm to the most cruel agitation. Can I, who have lulled her to sleep

on my bosom, hurl her into the ocean of grief?" Love still combated

this disinterested elevation of mind, when Lucy said aloud: "Pray

for me, oh my father!" Corinne sunk on her knees, and mutely besought

a paternal benediction on them both, with tears more stainless than

those of love. Lucy audibly continued: "Dear sister, intercede for

me in heaven! Friend of my childhood, protect me now!" How Corinne's

bosom yearned towards her, as Lucy, with added fervor, resumed; "Pardon

me, father, a brief forgetfulness, caused by the sentiment yourself

commanded! I am not, sure, to blame for loving him you chose to be my

husband. Achieve your work! Inspire him to select me as the partner

of his life! I shall never be happy, save with him; but my fluttering

heart shall not betray its secret. Oh, my God! My father, console your

child! render her worthy the esteem of _Oswald_!"--"Yes," whispered

Corinne, "kind father, grant her prayer, and give your other child

a peaceful grave!" Thus solemnly concluding the greatest effort of

which her soul was capable, she took from her breast the paper which

contained Oswald's ring, and rapidly withdrew. She felt that in sending

this, without letting him know where she was, she should break all

their ties, and yield him to her sister. In the presence of that tomb,

she had been more conscious than ever of the obstacles which separated

them: her own father, as well as Oswald's, seemed to condemn their

love. Lucy appeared deserving of him; and Corinne, at least for the

moment, was proud to sacrifice herself, that he might live at peace

with his country, his family, and his own heart. The music which she

heard from the house sustained her firmness: she saw an old blind man,

seated at the foot of a tree to listen, and begged he would present her

letter to one of the servants; thus she escaped the risk of Oswald's

discovering who had brought it; for no one could have seen her give

the paper, without being assured that it contained the fate of her

whole life. Her looks, her shaking hand, her hollow voice, bespoke one

of those awful moments, when destiny overrules us, and we act but as

the slaves of that fatality which so long pursued us. Corinne watched

the old man, led by his faithful dog, give her letter to a servant of

Nevil's, who, by chance, was carrying others into the house. All things

conspired to banish her last hope: she made a few steps towards the

gate, turning her head to mark the servant's entrance. When she no

longer saw him--when she was on the high road, the lights and music

lost, a deathlike damp rose to her brow, a chill ran through her frame;

she tottered on, but nature refused the task, and she fell senseless by

the way.

BOOK XVIII.

THE SOJOURN AT FLORENCE.

CHAPTER I.

Count D'Erfeuil, having passed some time in Switzerland, wearied

of nature 'mid the Alps, as he had tired of the arts at Rome, and

suddenly resolved to visit England. He had heard that he should find

much depth of thought there, and woke one morning to the conviction of

that being the very thing he wished to meet. This third search after

pleasure had succeeded no better than its predecessors, but his regard

for Nevil spurred him on; and he assured himself, another morning,

that friendship was the greatest bliss on earth; therefore he went

to Scotland. Not seeing Oswald at his home, but learning that he was

gone to Lady Edgarmond's, the Count leaped on his horse to follow; so

much did he believe that he longed to meet him. As he rode quickly

on, he saw a female extended motionless upon the road, and instantly

dismounted to assist her. What was his horror at recognizing, through

their mortal paleness, the features of Corinne! With the liveliest

sympathy he helped his servant to arrange some branches as a litter,

intending to convey her to Lady Edgarmond's, when Thérésina, who till

now had remained in her mistress's carriage, alarmed at her absence,

came to the spot, and, certain that no one but Lord Nevil could have

reduced her lady to this stats, begged that she might be borne to the

neighboring town. The Count followed her; and for eight days, during

which she suffered all the delirium of fever, he never left her.

Thus it was the frivolous man who proved faithful, while the man of

sentiment was breaking her heart. This contrast struck Corinne, when

she recovered her senses, and she thanked d'Erfeuil with great feeling:

he replied by striving to console her, more capable of noble actions

than of serious conversation. Corinne found him useful, but could not

make him her friend. She strove to recall her reason, and think over

what had passed; but it was long ere she could remember all she had

done, and from what motive. Then, perhaps, she thought her sacrifice

too great; and hoped, at least, to bid Lord Nevil a last adieu, ere she

left England; but the day after she regained her faculties chance threw

a newspaper in her way, which contained the following paragraph:----

"Lady Edgarmond has lately learned that her step-daughter, who she

believed had died in Italy, is still enjoying great literary celebrity

at Rome, under the name of Corinne. Her ladyship, much to her own

honor, acknowledges the fair poet, and is desirous of sharing with her

the fortune left by Lord Edgarmond's brother, who died in India. The

marriage contract was yesterday signed, between his Lordship's youngest

daughter (the only child of his widow) and Lord Nevil, who, on Sunday

next, leads Miss Lucy Edgarmond to the altar."

Unfortunately, Corinne lost not her consciousness after reading this

announcement; a sudden change took place within her; all the interests

of life were lost; she felt like one condemned to death, who had not

known, till now, when her sentence would be executed; and from this

moment the resignation of despair was the only sensation of her breast.

D'Erfeuil entered her room, and, finding her even paler than while in

her swoon, anxiously asked her the news. She replied gravely: "I am

no longer ill; to-morrow is the Sabbath: I will go to Plymouth, and

embark for Italy."--"I shall accompany you," he ardently returned.

"I've nothing to detain me here, and shall be charmed at travelling

with you."--"How truly good you are!" she said: "we ought not to judge

from appearances." Then, after checking herself, added: "I accept your

guidance to the seaport, because I am not sure of my own; but, once on

board, the ship will bear me on, no matter in what state I may be." She

signed for him to leave her, and wept long before her God, begging him

to support her beneath this sorrow. Nothing was left of the impetuous

Corinne. The active powers of her life were all exhausted; and this

annihilation, for which she could scarcely account, restored her

composure. Grief had subdued her. Sooner or later all rebellious heads

must bow to the same yoke.

"It is to-day!" sighed Corinne, as she woke: "it is to-day!" and

entered her carriage with d'Erfeuil. He questioned her, but she could

not reply. They passed a church: she asked his leave to enter for a

moment; then, kneeling before the altar, prayed for Oswald and for

Lucy: but when she would have risen she staggered, and could not take

one step without the support of Thérésina and the Count, who had

followed her. All present made way for her, with every demonstration

of pity. "I look very miserable, then?" she said: "the young and

lovely, at this hour, are leaving such a scene in triumph." The Count

scarcely understood these words. Kind as he was, and much as he loved

Corinne, he soon wearied of her sadness, and strove to draw her from

it, as if we had only to say we _will_ forget all woes of life, and _do

so_. Sometimes he cried: "I told you how it would be." Strange mode

of comforting; but such is the satisfaction which vanity tastes at

the expense of misfortune. Corinne fruitlessly strove to conceal her

sufferings; for we are ashamed of strong affections in the presence of

the light-minded, and bashful in all feelings that must be explained

ere comprehended--those secrets of the heart that can only be consoled

by those who guess them, Corinne was displeased with herself, as not

sufficiently grateful for the Count's devotion to her service; but in

his looks, his words, his accents, there were so much which wandered in

search of amusement, that she was often on the point of forgetting his

generous actions, as he did himself. It is doubtless very magnanimous

to set small price on our own good deeds, but that indifference, so

admirable in itself, may be carried to an extreme which approaches an

unfeeling levity.

Corinne, during her delirium, had betrayed nearly all her secrets--the

papers had since apprised d'Erfeuil of the rest. He often wished to

talk of what he called her _affairs_, but that word alone sufficed to

freeze her confidence; and she entreated him to spare her the pain of

breathing Lord Nevil's name. In parting with the Count, Corinne knew

not how to express herself; for she was at once glad to anticipate

being alone, and grieved to lose a man who had behaved so well towards

her. She strove to thank him, but he begged her so naturally _not to

speak of it_, that she obeyed: charging him to inform Lady Edgarmond

that she refused the legacy of her uncle; and to do so, as if she had

sent this message from Italy; for she did not wish her step-mother to

know she had been in England. "Nor Nevil?" asked the Count. "You may

tell him soon, yes, _very_ soon; my friends in Rome will let you know

when."--"Take care of your health, at least," he added: "don't you

know that _I_ am uneasy about you?"--"Really!" she exclaimed, smiling,

"not without cause, I believe." He offered her his arm to the vessel:

at that moment she turned towards England, the country she must never

more behold, where dwelt the sole object of her love and grief, and her

eyes filled with the first _sad_ tears she had ever shed in d'Erfeuil's

presence. "Lovely Corinne!" he said, "forget that ingrate! think of the

friends so tenderly attached to you, and recollect your own advantages

with pleasure." She withdrew her hand from him, and stepped back some

paces; then blaming herself for this reproof, gently returned to bid

him adieu: but he, having perceived nothing of what passed in her

mind, got into the boat with her; recommended her earnestly to the

captain's care; busied himself most endearingly on all the details that

could render her passage agreeable: and, when rowed ashore, waved his

handkerchief to the ship as long as he could be seen. Corinne returned

his salute. Alas! was _this_ the friend on whose attentions she ought

to have been thrown? Light loves last long; they are not tied so

tight that they can break. They are obscured or brought to light by

circumstances, while deep affections fly, never to return; and in their

places leave but cureless wounds.

CHAPTER II.

A favorable breeze bore Corinne to Leghorn in less than a month: she

suffered from fever the whole time; and her debility was such that

grief of mind was confused with the pain of illness; nothing seemed

now distinct. She hesitated, on landing, whether she should proceed

to Rome, or no; but though her best friends awaited her, she felt an

insurmountable repugnance to living in the scenes where she had known

Oswald. She thought of that door through which he came to her twice

every day; and the prospect of being there without him was too dreary.

She decided on going to Florence; and believing that her life could not

long resist her sorrows, thus intended to detach herself by degrees

from the world, by living alone, far from those who loved her, from

the city that witnessed her success, whose inhabitants would strive

to reanimate her mind, expect her to appear what she had been, while

her discouraged heart found every effort odious. In crossing fertile

Tuscany, approaching flower-breathed Florence, Corinne felt but an

added sadness. How dreadful the despair which such skies fail to calm!

One must feel either love or religion, in order to appreciate nature;

and she had lost the first of earthly blessings, without having yet

recovered the peace which piety alone can afford the unfortunate.

Tuscany, a well-cultivated, smiling land, strikes not the imagination

as do the environs of Rome and Naples. The primitive institutions of

its early inhabitants have been so effaced, that there scarcely remains

one vestige of them; but another species of historic beauty exists

in their stead--cities that bear the impress of the Middle Ages. At

Sienna, the public square wherein the people assembled, the balcony

from which their magistrate harangued them, must catch the least

reflecting eye, as proofs that _there_ once flourished a democratic

government. It is a real pleasure to hear the Tuscans, even of the

lowest classes, speak; their fanciful phrases give one an idea of that

Athenian Greek, which sounded like a perpetual melody. It is a strange

sensation to believe one's self amid a people all equally educated, all

elegant; such is the illusion which, for a moment, the purity of their

language creates.

The sight of Florence recalls its history, previous to the Medicean

sway. The palaces of its best families are built like fortresses:

without, are still seen the iron rings, to which the standards of each

party were attached. All things seem to have been more arranged for

the support of individual powers, than for their union in a common

cause. The city appears formed for civil war. There are towers attached

to the Hall of Justice, whence the approach of the enemy could be

discerned. Such were the feuds between certain houses, that you find

dwellings inconveniently constructed, because their lords would not let

them extend to the ground on which that of some foe had been pulled

down. Here the Pazzi conspired against the De Medici; there the Guelfs

assassinated the Ghibellines. The marks of struggling rivalry are

everywhere visible, though but in senseless stones. Nothing is now left

for any pretenders but an inglorious state, not worth disputing. The

life led in Florence has become singularly monotonous: its natives walk

every afternoon on the banks of the Arno, and every evening ask one

another if they _have_ been there. Corinne settled at a little distance

from the town; and let Prince Castel Forte know this, in the only

letter she had strength to write: such was her horror of all habitual

actions, that even the fatigue of giving the slightest order redoubled

her distress. She sometimes passed her day in complete inactivity,

retired to her pillow, rose again, opened a book, without the power

to comprehend a line of it. Oft did she remain whole hours at her

window; then would walk rapidly in her garden, cull its flowers, and

seek to deaden her senses in their perfume; but the consciousness of

life pursued her, like an unrelenting host: she strove in vain to calm

the devouring faculty of thought, which no longer presented her with

varied images; but one lone idea, armed with a thousand stings, that

pierced her heart.

CHAPTER III.