CHAPTER III.

The unhappy man shut himself in his room. At the dinner hour, Lucy, leading Juliet by the hand, tapped gently at his door; he opened it, saying: "Think not the worse of me, my dear, for begging that I may be left to myself to-day." His wife raised her child in her arms, and retired without a word. He now looked at the letter he had written to Corinne, and, bursting into tears exclaimed: "Shall I, then, make poor Lucy wretched too? What is my life worth, if it serves but to render all who love me miserable?"

_Letter from Lord Nevil to Corinne._

"Were you not the most generous of human beings, what could I say to you, who might weigh me so low by reproaches, or still lower by your griefs? I have done such ill to her I loved, that I almost believe myself a monster. Am I, Corinne? I suffer so much, that I cannot think myself an utter barbarian! You know, when first I met you, I was a prey to despair, that nearly brought me to the grave: I sought not happiness, but struggled long against your attraction; even when it triumphed, presentiments of misfortune lingered still. Sometimes I believed you destined by my father to make me once more feel myself as well beloved as I had been by him; then did I fear to disobey his will, in marrying a foreigner. On my return to England, this sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was by parental authority. Had he still lived, I should have felt a right to combat it; but the dead cannot hear us, and the irrevocable commands of those now powerless, possess a touching and a sacred force.--Once more surrounded by the ties of country, I met your sister, selected for me by my sire, and well according with my wish for a regular, a quiet life. My weakness makes me dread some kinds of agitation: my mind is easily seduced by new hopes; but my sick soul shrinks from resolves that interfere with its original habits or affections. Yet, Corinne, had I known you were in England, that proof of tenderness would have decided me. Ah! wherefore vaunt I what I would have done? Should we have been content? Am I capable of being so? Could I ever have chosen any one fate, without still pining after some other? When you restored my liberty, I fell into the common error, telling myself that so superior a woman might easily be estranged from me. Corinne, I have wounded your heart, I know; but I thought mine the only sacrifice: I deemed you would forget me. I cannot deny that Lucy is worthy of a still warmer attachment than I could give her; but since I learned your voyage to England, and the sorrow I had dealt you, my life has been a perpetual pain. I sought for death, certain that when you heard I was no more, you would forgive me. Doubtless, you can oppose to this years of fidelity and regret, such as my ingratitude ill merits; yet think--a thousand complicated circumstances invade the constancy of man. Imagine, if possible, that I have neither given nor received felicity; that my heart has been lonely since I left you, scarce daring even to commune with itself; that the mother of my child, who has so many titles to my love, is a stranger to my history and feelings; in truth, that my habitual sadness has reduced me to the state from which your cares, Corinne once extracted me. If I have returned to Italy, not for my health (you cannot suspect me of any love for life), but to bid you farewell, can you refuse to see me but once more? I wish it, because I think that it would benefit you; my own sufferings less prompt this desire. What use were it that I am miserable, that a dreadful weight presses upon my heart, if I came hither without obtaining pardon from you? I ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being so; but I feel certain that you would be solaced, if you could think upon me as your friend, and read, in Oswald's looks and accents, how dear you are to the criminal whose fate is far more altered than his heart. I respect the ties I have formed, and love your sister; but the human breast, wild and inconsistent as it is, can reconcile that tenderness with what I feel for you. I have nothing to say for myself that can be written; all I might explain would but condemn me; yet, if you saw me prostrate before you, through all my faults and duties, you would perceive what you are to me still, and that conversation would leave a balm for both. Our health is failing: Heaven may not accord us length of days. Let, then, whichever may be destined to precede the other, feel regretted by the dear friend left behind. The innocent alone deserve such joy: but may it not be granted to the guilty? Corinne, sublime soul! you who can read all hearts, guess what I cannot add, and comprehend me, as you used to do. Let me but see you; let my pallid lips touch your weak hand! It was not I alone who wrought this ruin. No; the same sentiment consumed us both: destiny struck two hearts, devoting one to crime; that one, Corinne, may not be the least pitiable."

_Answer._

"If I required but to see and pardon you, I could not for an instant refuse. Why is it that I do not feel resentment, although the pangs you have caused me are so dreadful? I must still love you, not _to hate_. Religion alone would not disarm me thus. There have been moments when my reason has left me; others, far sweeter, when I hoped to die before the day could end; and some in which I have doubted even virtue: you were to me its image here below: there was no guide for either my thoughts or feelings, when the same blow struck both my admiration and my love. What would have become of me without Heaven's help? Everything in this world was poisoned by your image: one sole asylum was left, and God received me. My strength decays, but not that supporting enthusiasm. I joy to think that the best aim in life is to become worthy of eternity: our bliss, our bane, alike tend to this purpose: and you were chosen to uproot the too strong hold I had on earth. Yet, when I saw your handwriting, learned that you were but on the other side of the river, a fearful tumult rose within me: incessantly was I obliged to tell myself, 'My sister is his wife.' To see you again appeared felicity: I will not deny that my heart, inebriated afresh, preferred these indefinite raptures to an age of calm: but Providence has not abandoned me in this peril. Are you not the husband of another? What then have I to say to you? Is it for me to die in your arms? What would my conscience suffer, if I made no sacrifice? if I permitted myself another hour with you? I can only appear before my God with anything like confidence by renouncing it. This resolution may appease my soul. Such happiness as I felt while you loved me is not in harmony with our mortal state; it agitates us, because we feel its fleetness: but religious meditation, that aims at self-improvement, and refers every cause to duty, is a state of peace; and I know not what ravages the mere sound of your voice would make on the repose I believe I have regained. Why do you tell me that your health is impaired? Alas! I am no longer your nurse; but still, I suffer with you. May God bless and prolong your days, my Lord! Be happy, but be so through piety. A secret communion with Divinity gives us in ourselves the power of confiding to a being who consoles us: it makes two friends of one spirit. Do you still seek for what the world calls happiness? Where will you find more than my tenderness would have bestowed? Know you that in the deserts of the New World I should have blessed my lot had you permitted me to follow you? I could have served you like a slave, have knelt before you as a heavenly being, had you but loved me truly. What have you done with so much faith? You have changed it into an affliction peerless as itself. Outrage me not, then, by one hope of happiness, except in prayer: let our thoughts meet in heaven! Yet when I feel myself about to die, perhaps I will be taken somewhere whence I may behold you pass. Assuredly, when my failing eyes can see no more, your image will be with me; but might not a recent review of your features render it more distinct? Deities of old were never present at the hour of death, so I forbid you mine; but I should like to see you perfectly when Oswald, Oswald! behold how weak I am, when abandoned to your recollection! Why has not Lucy sought me? Though she is your wife, she is still my sister. I have some kind and even generous things to tell her. And your child--I ought not to meet you; but you are surrounded by my family. Do they disown me still? or fear ye that poor little Juliet would be scared at seeing me? Ghost as I look, I yet could smile upon your daughter. Adieu, my Lord, adieu! Remember that I might call you brother. At least you will mourn for me externally, and, as a kinsman, follow my remains to Rome: let them be borne by the road where my car passed; and pause upon the spot where you restored my crown. Yet no, I am wrong, Oswald: I could exact nothing that could afflict you, only one tear, and sometimes a fond look towards the heaven where I shall soon await you."