CHAPTER IV.

Many days elapsed ere Oswald could regain his composure: he avoided the presence of his wife, and passed whole hours on the banks of the river that separated him from Corinne; often tempted to plunge amid its waves, that they might bear his body to the abode he never must enter living. Amazed as he was at Corinne's wish to see her sister, he longed to gratify it; yet how introduce the subject? He saw that Lucy was hurt by his distress, and hoped that she would question him; but she forbore, merely expressing a desire to visit Rome or Naples: he always begged a brief delay, and Lucy, with cold dignity, was silent.

Oswald, at least, could secure Corinne the presence of his little daughter, and secretly bade the nurse take Juliet to her. He met them on their return, and asked the child how she had enjoyed her visit. She replied by an Italian phrase, and with an accent so resembling Corinne's that her father started. "Who taught you that, dear?" he asked.--"The lady," she replied.--"And how did she behave to you?"--"Oh, she kissed me, and cried; I don't know why; but it made her worse, for she looks very ill, papa."--"Do you love her, darling?"--"That I do. I'll go to her every day. She has promised to teach me all she knows; and says, that she will make me grow like Corinne: what's that, pa? the lady did not tell me." Lord Nevil could not answer: he withdrew, to conceal his agitation, but bade the nurse take Juliet daily to Corinne. Perhaps he erred in disposing of his child without her mother's consent; but in a few days the young pupil's progress was astonishing: her masters for Italian and music were all amazed. Nothing had ever pained Lucy more than her sister's influence over Juliet's education. The child informed her that, ill as the lady seemed, she took great pains with her. Lucy's heart would have melted, could she have seen in all this anything but a design to win Nevil back. She was divided between the natural wish of being sole directress for her daughter, and self-reproach at the idea of withholding her from such valuable instructions. One day Oswald came in as Juliet was practising a music lesson. She held a lyre proportioned to her size; and her pretty arms fell into Corinne's own attitude so perfectly, that he felt gazing on the miniature copy of a fine picture, with the added grace of childish innocence. He could not speak, but sank, trembling, on a seat. Juliet then played the Scotch air which he had heard at Tivoli, before the design from Ossian; he listened breathlessly. Lucy, unseen, stole behind him: as Juliet ceased, her father took her on his knee, and said: "The lady on the banks of the Arno taught you this, did she not?"--"Yes, papa; but it hurt her very much: she was so ill while she taught me, that I begged her to leave off, but she would not. She made me promise to play you that tune every year, on a particular day, I believe it was the 17th of November."--"My God!" cried Oswald bursting into tears. Lucy now stepped forward, and, taking Juliet by the hand, said, hastily: "My Lord, it is too much to rob me of my child's affection; that solace, at least, is due to my misfortunes." She retired. Oswald would have followed her, but was refused. At the dinner hour he was told that she had been out for some time, not saying where. He was fearfully alarmed at her absence; but she shortly returned, with a calm and gentle air, such as he little expected. He would now have confided in her, and gained her pardon by sincerity, but she replied: "Explanation, indeed, is needful to us both; yet, my dear Lord, permit me still to defer it: you will soon know my motives for this request." Her address, he perceived, was more animated than usual; and every day its warmth, its interest, increased. He could not understand this change: its cause is soon told. And that Lucy so long had hidden in her heart escaped in the brief reproach she made her husband; and, as usually happens to persons who suddenly break from their habitual character, she now ran into extremes, resolving to seek Corinne, and ask her if she had determined perpetually to disturb her wedded peace; but, as she arrived at her sister's door, her diffidence returned; nor would she have had courage to enter, had not the invalid, who saw her from a window, sent Thérésina to entreat her. Lucy ascended to the sick chamber, and all her anger vanished at sight of its occupant. The sisters embraced in tears. Corinne then set an example of frankness which it was impossible for Lucy not to follow. Such was that mind's ascendency over every one, that, in her presence, neither dissimulation nor constraint could be preserved. Pallor and weakness confirmed her assertion, that she had not long to live: this sad truth added weight to her counsels. All Castel Forte had told her, and all she had guessed from Oswald's letters, proved that reserve and coldness separated the Nevils from each other. She entered very simply on this delicate subject: her perfect knowledge of the husband's character enabled her to point out why he required to find spontaneously in those he loved the confidence which he could not solicit, and to be received with cheerfulness proportioned to his own susceptibility of discouragement. She described her past self impartially, as if speaking of another, and showed how agreeable it must be for a man to find, united with moral conduct, that desire to please which is often inspired by a wish to atone for the loss of virtue. "Many women," she said, "have been beloved, not merely in spite of, but for the sake of their very errors; because they strove to extort a pardon by being ever agreeable, and having so much need of indulgence dared impose no laws on others. Therefore, dear sister, pride not in your perfections; let your charms consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne and Lucy in one: nor let your own worth excuse to you a moment's neglect of your graces, nor your self-respect render your manners repulsive. Were your dignity ill founded, it might wound _him_ less; for an over-exertion of certain rights chills the heart more than do unjust pretensions. Love delights in paying more than is due, where nothing is exacted." Lucy thanked her sister with much tenderness for the interest thus generously evinced in her welfare; and Corinne resumed: "If I were doomed to live, I might not be capable of it; but now my only selfish wish is, that Oswald should find some traces of my influence in you and in his child; nor ever taste one rapture that reminds him not of Corinne." Lady Nevil returned to her every day, and with the most amiable delicacy, studied to resemble the being so dear to her Lord. His curiosity increased, as he remarked the fresh attractions she thus acquired: he knew that she must owe them to Corinne; yet Lucy having promised to keep the secret of their meetings, no explanation occurred. The sufferer proposed yet to see the wedded pair together, but not till she was assured that she had but a few moments to live; but she involved this plan in so much mystery, that Lucy knew not in what manner it was to be accomplished.