None of the sentiments which agitated Oswald had escaped Mr Edgermond, and when the Count d'Erfeuil was gone, he said to him—"My dear Oswald, I take my leave,—I am going to Naples."—"Why so soon?" answered Nelville. "Because it is not good for me to stay here," continued Edgermond; "I am fifty years of age, and nevertheless I am not sure that Corinne would not make a fool of me."—"And even in that case," interrupted Oswald, "what would be the consequence?"—"Such a woman is not formed to live in Wales," replied Mr Edgermond; "believe me, my dear Oswald, only Englishwomen are fit for England: it does not become me to give you advice, I need not assure you that I shall not mention a word of what I have seen; but with all Corinne's accomplishments, I should say, with Thomas Walpole, of what use is all that at home? And, you know the home is all with us, all for our women at least. Imagine to yourself your beautiful Italian alone, while you are hunting or attending your duty in Parliament; imagine her leaving you at dessert to get tea ready against you shall leave table! Dear Oswald, depend upon it our women possess those domestic virtues which are to be found nowhere else. The men in Italy have nothing to do but to please the women; therefore the more attractive they are the better. But with us, where men have active pursuits, women must be satisfied with the shade. That it would be a great pity to condemn Corinne to such a destiny, I freely acknowledge. I should be glad to see her upon the throne of England; but not beneath my humble roof. My lord, I knew your mother, whose loss was so much lamented by your worthy father: she was a lady in every respect like my young cousin. Such is the wife, which, were I at a proper time of life, I should choose. Adieu, my dear friend, do not be offended at what I have said, for nobody can be a greater admirer of Corinne than I am, and I own to you that after all were I at your time of life, I doubt whether I could have sufficient fortitude to renounce the hope of becoming agreeable to her."—In finishing, these words, he took the hand of Oswald, squeezed it cordially, and departed without receiving a word in reply. But Mr Edgermond comprehended the cause of his silence, and satisfied with a pressure of the hand from Oswald in answer to his own, he went away, impatient himself to finish a conversation which was painful to him.
Of all that he had said, only one word had penetrated the heart of Oswald, and that was the recollection of his mother, and his father's profound attachment to her. He had lost her when he was only fourteen years of age, but he recollected her virtues with the most heart-felt reverence, as well as that timidity and reserve which characterised them.—"Fool that I am," cried he, when alone, "I wish to know what kind of wife my father destined for me, and do I not know it, since I can call to mind the image of my mother whom he so tenderly loved? What do I want more? Why deceive myself in feigning ignorance of what would be his sentiments now, were it in my power to consult his will?" It was, however, a terrible task for Oswald to return to Corinne, after what had passed the evening before, without saying something in confirmation of the sentiments which he had expressed. His agitation and his trouble became so violent, that they affected a ruptured blood-vessel which he thought had completely healed up, but which now re-opened and began to bleed afresh. Whilst his servants, in affright, called everywhere for assistance, he secretly wished that the end of life might terminate his sufferings.—"If I could die," said he, "after having seen Corinne once more, after having heard her again call me her Romeo!"—Tears rolled down his cheeks; they were the first tears he had shed for the sake of another since the death of his father.
He wrote to Corinne informing her of his accident, and some melancholy words terminated his letter. Corinne had begun this day under the most deceitful auspices: happy in the impression she conceived she had made upon Oswald, believing herself beloved, she was happy; nor did busy thought conjure up any reflection not in unison with what she so much desired. A thousand circumstances ought to have mingled considerable fear with the idea of espousing Lord Nelville; but as there was more passion than foresight in her character, governed by the present, and not diving into the future, this day, which was to cost her so many pangs, dawned upon her as the most pure and serene of her life.
On receiving Oswald's note, her soul was a prey to the most cruel feelings: she believed him in imminent danger, and set out immediately on foot, traversing the Corso at the hour when all the city were walking there, and entered the house of Oswald in face of all the first society of Rome. She had not taken time to reflect, and had walked so fast, that when she reached the chamber, she could not breathe, or utter a single word. Lord Nelville conceived all that she had risked to come and see him, and exaggerating the consequences of this action, which in England would have entirely ruined the reputation of an unmarried woman, he felt penetrated with generosity, love, and gratitude, and rising up, feeble as he was, he pressed Corinne to his heart, and cried:—"My dearest love! No, I never will abandon you! After having exposed yourself on my account! When I ought to repair—" Corinne comprehended what he would say, and as she gently disengaged herself from his arms, interrupted him thus, having first enquired how he was:—"You are deceived, my lord; in coming to see you I do nothing that most of my countrywomen would not do in my place. I knew you were ill—you are a stranger here—you know nobody but me; it is therefore my duty to take care of you. Were it otherwise, ought not established forms to yield to those real and profound sentiments, which the danger or the grief of a friend give birth to? What would be the fate of a woman if the rules of social propriety, permitting her to love, forbade that irresistible emotion which makes us fly to succour the object of our affection? But I repeat to you, my lord, you need not be afraid that I have compromised myself by coming hither. My age and my talents allow me, at Rome, the same liberty as a married woman. I do not conceal from my friends that I am come to see you. I know not whether they blame me for loving you; but that fact admitted, I am certain that they do not think me culpable in devoting myself entirely to you."
On hearing these words, so natural and so sincere, Oswald experienced a confused medley of different feelings. He was moved with the delicacy of Corinne's answer; but he was almost vexed that his first impression was not just. He could have wished that she had committed some great fault in the eyes of the world, in order that this very fault, imposing upon him the duty of marrying her, might terminate his indecision. He was offended at this liberty of manners in Italy, which prolonged his anxiety by allowing him so much happiness, without annexing to it any condition. He could have wished that honour had commanded what he desired, and these painful thoughts produced new and dangerous effects. Corinne, notwithstanding the dreadful alarm she was in, lavished upon him the most soothing attentions.
Towards the evening, Oswald appeared more oppressed; and Corinne, on her knees by the side of his bed, supported his head in her arms, though she was herself racked with more internal pain than he. This tender and affecting care made a gleam of pleasure visible through his sufferings.—"Corinne," said he to her, in a low voice, "read in this volume, which contains the thoughts of my father, his reflections on death. Do not think," he continued, seeing the terror of Corinne; "that I feel myself menaced with it. But I am never ill without reading over these consoling reflections. I then fancy that I hear them from his own mouth; besides, my love, I wish you to know what kind of man my father was; you will the better comprehend the cause of my grief, and of his empire over me, as well as all that I shall one day confide to you."—Corinne took this manuscript, which Oswald never parted from, and in a trembling voice read the following pages.
"Oh ye just, beloved of the Lord! you can speak of death without fear; for you it is only a change of habitation, and that which you quit is perhaps the least of all! Oh numberless worlds, which in our sight fill the boundless region of space! unknown communities of God's creatures; communities of His children, scattered throughout the firmament and ranged beneath its vaults, let our praises be joined to yours! We are ignorant of your condition, whether you possess the first, second, or last share of the generosity of the Supreme Being; but in speaking of death or of life, of time past or of time to come, we assimilate our interests with those of all intelligent and sensible beings, no matter where placed, or by what distance separated from us. Families of peoples! Families of nations! Assemblage of worlds! you say with us, Glory to the Master of the Heavens, to the King of Nature, to the God of the Universe! Glory and homage to Him, who by his will can convert sterility into abundance, shadow into reality, and death itself into eternal life.
"Undoubtedly the end of the just is a desirable death; but few amongst us, few amongst our forefathers have witnessed it. Where is the man who could approach without fear the presence of the Eternal? Where is the man who has loved God unremittingly, who has served Him from his youth, and who, attaining an advanced age, finds in his recollections no subject of uneasiness? Where is the man, moral in all his actions, without ever thinking of the praise and the reward of public opinion? Where is that man, so rare among the human species, who is worthy to serve as a model to all? Where is he? Where is he? Ah! if he exist amongst us, let our reverence and respect surround him; and ask, you will do wisely to ask, to be present at his death, as at the sublimest of earthly spectacles: only arm yourself with courage to follow him to that bed, so repulsive to our feelings, from which he will never rise. He foresees it; he is certain of it; serenity reigns in his countenance, and his forehead seems encircled with a celestial aureole: he says, with the apostle, I know in whom I have believed; and this confidence animates his countenance, even when his strength is exhausted. He already contemplates his new country, but without forgetting that which he is about to quit: he gives himself up to his Creator and to his God, without forgetting those sentiments which have charmed him during his life.
"Is it a faithful spouse, who according to the laws of nature must be the first of all his connections to follow him: he consoles her, he dries her tears, he appoints a meeting with her in that abode of felicity of which he can form no idea without her. He recalls to her mind those happy days which they have spent together; not to rend the heart of a tender friend, but to increase their mutual confidence in the goodness of heaven. He also reminds the companion of his fortunes, of that tender love which he has ever felt for her; not to give additional poignancy to that grief which he wishes to assuage, but to inspire her with the sweet idea that two lives have grown upon the same stalk; and that by their union they will become an additional defence to each other in that dark futurity where the pity of the Supreme God is the last refuge of our thoughts. Alas! is it possible to form a just conception of all the emotions which penetrate a loving soul at the moment when a vast solitude presents itself to our eyes, at the moment when the sentiments, the interests upon which we have subsisted during so many smiling years, are about to vanish for ever? Ah! you who are to survive this being like unto yourself whom heaven had given you for your support; that being who was every thing to you, and whose looks bid you an agonizing adieu, you will not refuse to place your hand upon an expiring heart, in order that its last palpitation may still speak to you when all other language has failed! And shall we blame you, faithful pair, if you had desired that your mortal remains should be deposited in the same resting place? Gracious God, awaken them together; or if one of them only has merited that favour, if only one of them must join the small number of the elect, let the other be informed of it; let the other perceive the light of angels at the moment when the fate of the happy shall be proclaimed, in order that he may possess one moment of joy before he sinks into eternal night.
"Ah! perhaps we wander when we endeavour to describe the last days of the man of sensibility, of the man who beholds death advance with hasty strides, who sees it ready to separate him from all the objects of his affection.