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.