CHAPTER III.

There was at that time in the harbor an English ship of war, where divine service was performed every Sunday. The captain and other English persons then at Naples invited Lord Nevil to attend on the morrow. He promised; but while thinking whether he should take Corinne, or how she could be presented to his countrywomen, he was tortured by anxiety. As he walked with her near the port next day, and was about to advise her not to go on board this vessel, a boat neared the shore, rowed by ten sailors, dressed in white, wearing black velvet caps, with the Leopard embroidered on them in silver. A young officer stepped on shore, and entreated Corinne to let him take her to the ship, calling her "Lady Nevil." At that name she blushed, and cast down her eyes. Oswald hesitated a moment, then said in English, "Come, my dear:" she obeyed. The sound of the waves made her thoughtful, as did the silence of the well-disciplined crew, who without one superfluous word or gesture, rapidly winged their bark over the element they had so often traversed. Corinne dared not ask Nevil what she was to anticipate; she strove to guess his projects, never hitting on what, at all times, was most probable that he had _none_, but let himself be borne away by every new occurrence. For a moment, she imagined that he was leading her to a Church of England chaplain, to make her his wife; this thought alarmed more than it gratified her. She felt about to leave Italy for England, where she had suffered so much; the severity of its manners returned to her mind, and not even love could triumph over her fear. How she would in other circumstances have wondered at these fleeting ideas! She mounted the vessel's side; it was arranged with the most careful neatness. Nothing was heard from its deck but the commands of the captain. Subordination and serious regularity here reigned, as emblems of liberty and order, in contrast with the impassioned turmoil of Naples. Oswald eagerly watched the impression this made on Corinne, yet he was often diverted from his attention by the love he bore his country. There is no second country for an Englishman, except a ship and the sea. Oswald joined the Britons on board to ask the news, and talk politics. Corinne stood beside some English females who had come to hear prayers. They were surrounded by children, beautiful as day, but timid like their mothers, and not a word was spoken before the stranger. This restraint was sad enough for Corinne; she looked towards fair Naples, thought of its flowery shore, its lively habits, and sighed. Happily, Oswald heard her not; on the contrary, seeing her seated among his sisters, as it were, her dark eyelashes cast down like their light ones, and in every way conforming with their customs, he felt a thrill of joy. Vainly does an Englishman take a temporary pleasure among foreign scenes and people; his heart invariably flies back to his first impressions. If you find him sailing from the antipodes, and ask whither he is going, he answers, "home," if it is towards England that he steers. His vows, his sentiments, at whatever distance he may be, are always turned towards her.[1] They went below for divine service. Corinne perceived that her first conjecture was unfounded, and that Nevil's intentions were less solemn than she supposed; then she reproached herself for having feared, and again felt all the embarrassment of her situation; for every one present believed her the wife of Lord Nevil, and she could say nothing either to confirm or to destroy this idea. Oswald suffered as cruelly. Such faults as weakness and irresolution are never detected by their possessor, for whom they take new names from each fresh circumstance; sometimes he tells himself that prudence, sometimes that delicacy defers the moment of action, and prolongs his suspense. Corinne, in spite of her painful thoughts, was deeply impressed by all she witnessed. Nothing speaks more directly to the soul than divine service on board ship, for which the noble simplicity of the Reformed Church seems particularly adapted. A young man acted as chaplain, with a firm, sweet voice; his face bespoke a purity of soul; he stood "severe in youthful beauty," a type of the religion fit to be preached amidst the risks of war. At certain periods the English minister pronounced prayers, the last words of which were repeated by the whole assembly; these confused, yet softened tones, coming from various distances, reanimated the interest of the whole. Sailors and officers alike knelt to the words, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" The captain's cutlass hung by his side, suggesting the glorious union of humility before God, and courage among men, which renders the devotion of warriors so affecting. While all these brave fellows addressed the God of Hosts, the sea was seen through the ports; the light sound of its now peaceful waves was audible, as if to say, "Your prayers are heard." The chaplain concluded with a petition peculiar to English sailors: "And may God grant us the grace to defend our happy constitution abroad, and to find, on our return, domestic peace at home." What grandeur is contained in these simple words! The preparatory and continual study which the navy demands, the life led in those warlike and floating cloisters, the uniformity of their grave toils, is seldom interrupted, save by danger or death. Nevertheless, sailors often behave with extreme gentleness and pity towards women and children, if thrown on their care; one is the more touched by this, from knowing the heedless coolness with which they expose their lives in battle, and on the main where the presence of man seems something supernatural. Nevil and Corinne were again rowed on shore; they gazed on Naples, built like an amphitheatre, thence to look on the spectacle of nature.

As Corinne's foot touched the shore, she could not check a sentiment of joy: had Oswald guessed this, he would have felt displeased, perhaps excusably; yet such displeasure would have been unjust, for he was passionately beloved, though the thought of his country always forced on his adorer the memory of events which had rendered her miserable. Her fancy was changeful: talent, especially in a woman, creates a zest for variety that the deepest passion cannot entirely supply. A monotonous life, even in the bosom of content, dismays a mind so constituted: without a breeze to fill our sails we may always hug the shore; but imagination will stray, be sensibility never so faithful, at least till misfortune slays these trifling impulses, and leaves us but one thought, one only sorrow.

Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne solely to the awkward situation of her having been called Lady Nevil: he blamed himself for not extricating her from it, and feared that she might suspect him of levity. He therefore began the long-desired explanation, by offering to relate his own history. "I shall speak first," he said, "and your confidence will follow mine?"--"Doubtless it ought," replied Corinne, trembling; "you wish it--at what day--what hour? when you have spoken, I will tell all."--"How sadly you are agitated!" said Oswald. "Will you always fear me thus, nor ever learn to trust my heart?"--"It must be," she answered: "I have written it, and if you insist--to-morrow----"--"To-morrow we go to Vesuvius: you shall teach me to admire it; and on our way, if I have strength enough, I will give you the story of my own doom: that shall precede yours, I am resolved."--"Well," replied Corinne, "you give me to-morrow: I thank you for that one day more. Who can tell if, when I have opened my heart to you, you will remain the same? How can I help trembling beneath such doubt?"

[1] Who that has one beloved object absent for any considerable space of time, can read this tribute from a foreigner without tears of pride and rapture, at the consciousness that whoever is left behind, though little valued while near, gains a sad importance as part of that home, that England, to which the dear one must long to return? The natives of great continents may love their birth-places as well as we do ours; but it cannot be in the same manner.--TR.