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!"