[CHAPTER V.]
It was the beginning of September, and the weather super till they neared the Apennines, where they felt the approach of winter. A soft air is seldom united with the pleasure of looking on picturesque mountains. One evening, a terrible hurricane arose: the thickest darkness closed around them; and the horses, so wild there that they are even harnessed by stratagem, set off with inconceivable rapidity. Our lovers felt much excited by being thus hurried on together. "Ah!" cried Oswald, "if they could bear us from all I know on earth—if they could climb these hills, and dash into another life, where we should regain my father, who would receive and bless us, would you not go with me, beloved?" He pressed her vehemently to his bosom. Corinne, enamored as himself, replied: "Dispose of me as you will; chain me like a slave to your fate: had not the slaves of other days talents that soothed their masters? Such would I be to thee. But, Oswald, yet respect her who thus trusts thee: condemned by all the world, she must not blush to meet thine eye."—"No," he exclaimed, "I will lose all, or all obtain. I ought, I must either live thy husband, or die in stifling the transports of my passion: but I will hope to be thine before the world, and glory in thy tenderness. Yet tell me, I conjure thee, have I not sunk in thine esteem by all these struggles? Canst thou believe thyself less dear than ever?" His accents were so sincere, that, for awhile, they gave her back her confidence, and the purest, sweetest rapture animated them both.
Meanwhile the horses stopped. Oswald alighted first. The cold sharp wind almost made him fancy himself landing in England: this freezing air was not like that of Italy, which bids young breasts forget all things save love. Oswald sank back into his gloom. Corinne, who knew the unsettled nature of his fancy, but too well guessed the cause. On the morrow they arrived at our Lady of Loretto, which stands upon an eminence, from whence is seen the Adriatic. While Oswald gave some orders for their journey, Corinne entered the church, where the image of the Virgin is inclosed in the choir of a small chapel, adorned with bas-reliefs. The marble pavement that surrounds the sanctuary is worn by pilgrim knees. Corinne, moved by these marks of prayer, knelt on the stones so often pressed by the unfortunate, and addressed the type of heavenly truth and sensibility. Oswald here found her bathed in tears. He did not understand how a woman of her mind could bow to the practices of the ignorant. She guessed this by his looks, and said: "Dear Oswald, are there not many moments when we dare not raise our hopes to the Supreme Being, or breathe to him the sorrows of our hearts? Is it not pleasing, then, to behold a woman as intercessor for our human weakness? She suffered on this earth, for she lived on it; to her I blush not to pray for you, when a petition to God himself would overawe me."—"I cannot always directly supplicate my Maker," replied Oswald. "I, too, have my intercessor: the guardian angel of children is their father: and since mine has been in heaven, I have oft received an unexpected solace, aid, and composure, which I can but attribute to the miraculous protection whence I still hope to escape from my perplexities."—"I comprehend you," said Corinne, "and believe there is no one who has not some mysterious idea of his own destiny—one event which he has always dreaded, and which, though improbable, is sure to happen. The punishment of some fault, though it be impossible to trace the connection our misfortunes have with it, often strikes the imagination. From my childhood I trembled at the idea of living in England. Well; my inability to do so may be my worst regret; and on that point I feel there is something unconquerable in my fate, against which I struggle in vain. Every one conceives his life interiorly a contrast to what it seems we have a confused sense of some supernatural power, disguised in the form of external circumstance, while itself alone is the source of all our actions. Dear friend, minds capable of reasoning forever plunge into their own abyss, but always fail to fathom it."
Oswald, as he heard her speak thus, wondered to find that, while she was capable of such glowing sentiments, her judgment still could hover over them, like their presiding genius. "No," he frequently said to himself, "no other society on earth can satisfy the man who has possessed such a companion as this."
They entered Ancona at night, as he wished not to be recognized: in spite of his precautions, however, he was so; and the next morning all the inhabitants crowded about the house in which he stayed, awaking Corinne by shouts of "Long live Lord Nevil, our benefactor!" She started, rose hastily, and mingled with the crowd, to hear their praises of the man she loved. Oswald, informed that the people were impatiently calling for him, was at last obliged to appear. He believed Corinne still slept: what was his astonishment at finding her already known and cherished by the grateful multitude, who entreated her to be their interpretress! Corinne's imagination—by turns her charm and her defect—delighted in extraordinary adventures. She thanked Lord Nevil, in the name of the people, with a grace so noble that the natives were in ectasies. Speaking for them, she said: "You preserved us—we owe you our lives!" But when she offered him the oak and laurel crown they had entwined, an indefinite timidity beset her: the enthusiastic populace prostrated themselves before him, and Corinne involuntarily bent her knee in tendering him the garland. Oswald was so overwhelmed at the sight, that he could no longer support this scene, nor the public homage of his beloved; but drew her away with him. She wept, and thanked the good inhabitants of Ancona, who followed them with blessings, as Oswald, hiding himself in his carriage, murmured: "Corinne at my feet! Corinne, in whose path I ought to kneel! Have I deserved this? Do you suspect me of such unworthy pride?"—"No, no," she said; "but I was suddenly seized with the respect a woman always feels for him she loves. To us, indeed, is external deference most directed; but in truth, in nature, it is the woman who reveres the being capable of defending her."
"Yes, I will be thy defender, to the last hour of my life!" he answered. "Heaven be my witness, such a genius shall not in vain seek a refuge in the harbor of my love!"—"Alas!" she sighed, "that love is all I need; and what promise can secure it to me? No matter. I feel that you love me now better than ever: let us not trouble this return of affection."—"Return!" interrupted Oswald.—"I cannot retract the expression; but let us not seek to explain it;" and she made a gentle sign for Nevil to be silent.
[CHAPTER VI.]
For two days they proceeded on the shore of the Adriatic; but this sea, on the Romagnan side, has not the effect of the ocean, nor even of the Mediterranean. The high road winds close to its waves, and grass grows on its banks: it is not thus that we would represent the mighty realm of tempests. At Rimini and Cesena, you quit the classic scenes of history: their latest remembrancer is the Rubicon, which Cæsar passed to become the lord of Rome. Not far from hence is the republic of St. Marino, the last weak vestige of liberty, besides the spot on which was resolved the destruction of the world's chief republic. By degrees, you now advance towards a country very opposite in aspect to the Papal State. Bologna, Lombardy, the environs of Ferrara and Rovigo, are remarkable for beauty and cultivation—how unlike the poetic barrenness and decay that announce an approach to Rome, and tell of the terrible events that have occurred there!