CHAPTER V.

Oswald, disliking all recollections of France, crossed it very hastily. Lucy evinced neither wish nor will of any kind, but left it for him to decide everything. They reached the base of the mountains that separate Dauphiny from Savoy, and ascended the Pas des Echelles on foot: this road is dug in the rocks; its entrance resembles a deep cavern; it is dark throughout, even in the brightest days of summer. As yet, they found no snow; but autumn, the season of decay, was herself fast fading. The road was covered with dead leaves, borne to this region on the gale, from the distant trees. Thus they saw the wreck of nature without beholding any promise of her revival. The sight of the mountains charmed Lord Nevil: while we live among plains, the earth seems only made to bear and nourish man; but in picturesque countries we see the impress of their Creator's power and genius; yet man is everywhere familiarized with nature: the roads he frames ascend the steep, or fathom the abyss; nothing is inaccessible to him, save the great mystery of his own being. In Morienne, the winter was more rigorously felt at every step: one might fancy one's self wending northward, in approaching Mont Cenis. Lucy, who had never travelled before, was alarmed at finding the ice render the horses' pace unsteady: she hid her fears, but reproached herself for having brought her little one with her: often doubting whether the resolve to do so had been purely moral, or whether the hope of growing dearer to Oswald, by constantly associating her image with that of their beloved child, had not deadened her to the risks Juliet would thus incur. Lucy was apt to perplex her mind with secret scruples of conscience; the more virtuous we are, the more this kind of fastidiousness increases: she had no resource, save in her long and silent prayers, which somewhat tranquillized her spirit. The landscape now took a more terrific character: the snow fell heavily on ground already covered with it. They seemed entering the Hell of Ice described by Dante. From the foot of the precipices to the mountain-tops, all varieties were concealed. The pines, now clothed in white, were mirrored in the winter like spectral trees. Oswald and Lucy gazed in silence; speech would have seemed presumptuous; nature was frozen into dumbness, and they were mute like her. Suddenly they perceived, on an immense extent of snow, a long file of darkly clad figures carrying a bier towards a church. These priests, the only living beings who broke this desert solitude, preserved their wonted pace. The thought of death lent it a gravity which not even the bleakness of the air tempted them to forget. Here was the mourning of nature and of man for vegetable and for human life.

No color was left--that black, that white, thus united, struck the soul with awe. "What a sad omen!" sighed Lady Nevil.--"Lucy," interrupted Oswald, "trust me, it is not for you."--"Alas!" he thought, "it was not beneath such auspices I travelled with Corinne. Where is she now? may not these gloomy objects be but warnings of what I am to suffer?" Lucy's nerves were shaken by the terrors of her journey. This kind of fear is almost unknown to an intrepid man; and she mistook for carelessness of her, Oswald's ignorance of such alarm's possible existence. The common people, who have no better exercise for fancy, love to exaggerate all hazards, and delight in the effect they thus produce on their superiors. The inn-keepers, every winter, tell their guests wild tales of "_le Mont_," as if it were an immovable monster, guarding the vales that lead to the land of promise. They watch the weather for formidable symptoms, and beg all foreigners to avoid crossing Mont Cenis during _la tourmente_. This is a wind announced by a white cloud, spread like a sheet in the air, and by degrees covering the whole horizon. Lucy had gained all possible information, unknown to Nevil, who was too much occupied by the sensation of re-entering Italy to think on these reports. The possible end and aim of his pilgrimage agitated his wife still more than did the journey itself, and she judged everything unfavorably. In the morning of their ascent, several peasants beset her with forebodings; those hired to carry her up the mountain, however, assured her that there was nothing to apprehend: she looked at Nevil, and saw that he laughed at these predictions; therefore, piqued by his security, she professed herself ready to depart. He knew not how much this resolution cost her, but mounted a horse and followed the litter which bore his wife and child. The way was easy, till they were about the centre of the flat which precedes the descent, when a violent hurricane arose. Drifts of snow blinded Lucy's bearers, and often hid Oswald from her view. The religious men who devote their lives to succor travellers on the Alps began to ring their alarm-bell; yet, though this sound proclaimed the neighborhood of benevolent pity, its rapid and heavy repetition seemed more expressive of dismay than assistance. Lucy hoped that Oswald would propose passing the night at this monastery; but, as she said nothing, he thought it best to hasten on, while daylight lasted. Lucy's bearers inquired, with some uneasiness, if she wished them to descend. "Yes," she said, "since my Lord does not oppose it." She erred in thus suppressing her feelings: the presence of her child would have excused them; but, while we love one by whom we cannot deem ourselves beloved, each instant brings its own sense of humiliation. Oswald remained on horseback, though that was the least safe method of descent, but he believed himself thus secure against losing sight of his wife and child. From the summit, Lucy looked down on the abrupt road which she would have taken for a precipice, had not steeps still more perpendicular been close at hand. She pressed her darling to her heart with strong emotion. Oswald observed this, and, quitting his saddle, joined the men who carried her litter. The graceful zeal with which he did this filled her eyes with tears; but, at that instant, the whirlwind rose so furiously that her bearers fell on their knees, exclaiming: "O God, protect us!" Lucy regained her courage; and, raising herself, held Juliet towards Lord Nevil. "Take your child, my love!" she said. Oswald received it, answering: "And you too---come, I can carry ye both!"--"No," she said, "only save _her!_!"--"Save!" he repeated: "is there any danger? Unhappy wretches--why did you not tell us?"--"They did," interrupted Lucy.--"And you concealed it from me? How have I merited is cruel reserve?" He wrapped his cloak round Juliet, and cast down his eyes in deep disquietude; but heaven most mercifully appeased the storm, and lent a ray which showed them the fertile plains of Piedmont. In another hour they arrived unharmed at Novalaise, the first Italian town after crossing Mont Cenis. On entering the inn, Lucy embraced her child, and returned her fervent thanks to God. Oswald leaned pensively near the fire, and, when she rose, held out his hand to her, saying: "You were alarmed then, love?"--"Yes, dear."--"Why would you go on?"--"You seemed impatient to proceed."--"Do you not know that, above all things, I dread exposing you to pain or danger?"--"It is for Juliet that they are to be dreaded," she replied, taking the little one on her lap to warm it, and twisting round her fingers the beautiful black curls that the snow had matted on that fair brow.[1] The mother and child formed so charming a picture, that Oswald gazed on them with tender admiration; but Lucy's silence discouraged the feeling which might else have led to a mutual understanding. They arrived at Turin, where the season was unusually severe. The vast apartments of Italy were destined to receive the sun. Their freshness in summer is most welcome; but, in the depth of winter, they seem cheerless deserts; and their possessors feel like pigmies in the abode of giants. The death of Alfieri had just occasioned a general mourning among his proud countrymen. Nevil no longer recognized the gayety formerly so dear to him. The absence of her he loved disenchanted both nature and art: he sought intelligence of her, and learned that for five years she had published nothing, but lived in seclusion at Florence. He resolved on going thither; not to remain, and thus violate the affection he owed to Lucy, but to tell Corinne how ignorant he had been of her residence in Scotland. In crossing Lombardy, he sighed: "How beautiful this was, when all those elms were in full leaf, with vines linking them together!"--"How beautiful it was," thought Lucy, "while Corinne shared it with you!" A humid fog, such as oft arises in so well-watered a land, obscured their view of the country. During the night they heard the deluge of southern rain fall on, nay, through the roof, as if water was pursuing them with all the avidity of fire. Lucy sought in vain for the charm of Italy: it seemed that everything conspired to veil it in gloom for Oswald and herself.

[1] Madame de Staël gave Lucy, at three years of age, hair long enough to make a bracelet. She was thinking of French children. The formal Edgarmonds were not more likely to deviate from the English fashion than to christen Nevil's daughter Juliette.--TR.