Fate sometimes has its own strange, cruel sport, repulsing our presuming familiarity. Oft, when we yield to hope, calculate on success, and trifle with our destiny, the sable thread is blending with its tissue, and the weird sisters dash down the airy fabrics we have reared.
It was now November; yet Corinne arose enchanted with her prospects. For the first act she chose a very picturesque costume: her hair, though dishevelled, was arranged with an evident design of pleasing; her light, fantastic garb gave her noble form a most mischievously attractive air. She reached the palace where she was to play. Every one but Oswald had arrived. She deferred the performance as long as possible, and began to be uneasy at his absence; when she came on the stage, however, she perceived him, though he sat in a remote part of the hall, and the pain of having waited redoubled her joy. She was inspired by gayety as she had been at the Capitol by enthusiasm. This drama blends song with speech, and even gives opportunities for extempore dialogue, of which Corinne availed herself to render the scene more animated. She sung the buffa airs with peculiar elegance. Her gestures were at once comic and dignified. She extorted laughter, without ceasing to be imposing. Her talents, like her part, queened it over actors and spectators, pleasantly bantering both parties. Ah! who would not have wept over such a sight, could they have known that this bright armor but drew down the lightning, that this triumphant mirth would soon give place to bitter desolation? The applause was so continual, so judicious, that the rapture of the audience infected Corinne with that kind of delirium which pours a lethe over the past, and bids the future seem unclouded. Oswald had seen her represent the deepest woe, at a time when he still hoped to make her happy; he now beheld her breathing stainless joy, just as he had received tidings that might prove fatal to them both. Oft did he wish to take her from this scene of daring happiness, yet felt a sad pleasure in once more beholding that lovely countenance bedecked in smiles. At the conclusion, she appeared arrayed as an Amazonian queen, commanding men, almost the elements, by that reliance on her charms which beauty may preserve, unless she loves; then, then, no gift of nature or of fortune can reassure her spirit; but this crowned flirt, this fairy queen, miraculously blending rage with wit, carelessness with ambition, and conceit with despotism, seemed to rule over fate as over hearts; and when she ascended her throne she exacted the submission of her subjects with a smile, arch as it was arrogant. This was, perhaps, the moment of her life, from which both grief and fear seemed furthest banished; when suddenly she saw her lover bow his face on his hands to hide his tears. She trembled, and the curtain had not quite fallen, when, leaving her already hated throne, she rushed into the next apartment. Thither he followed her; and when she marked his paleness, she was seized with such alarm that she was forced to lean against the wall for support. "Oswald," she said, "my God! what has happened?"—"I must start for England to-night," he said, forgetting that he ought not thus to have exposed her feelings.—"No, no!" she cried, clinging to him distractedly; "you cannot plunge me into such despair. How have I merited it? or—or—you mean that you will take me with you?"—"Let us leave this cruel crowd," he said: "come with me, Corinne." She followed him, not understanding aught addressed to her, answering at random; her gait and look so changed, that every one believed her struck with sudden illness.
[CHAPTER III.]
When they were in the gondola, she raved: "What you have made me feel is worse than death: be generous: throw me into these waves, that I may lose the sense which maddens me. Oswald, be brave: I have seen you do things that required more courage."—"Hold, hold!" he cried, "if you would not drive me to suicide. Hear me, when we have reached your house, and then pronounce our fate. In the name of Heaven be calm!" There was such misery in his accents that she was silent; but trembled so violently, that she could hardly walk up the stairs to her apartment. There she tore off her ornaments in dismay; and, as Lord Nevil saw her in this state, a few moments since so brilliant, he sank upon a seat in tears.—"Am I a barbarian?" he cried. "Corinne! Just Heaven! Corinne! do you not think me so?"—"No," she said, "no, I cannot.—Have you not still that look which every day gives me fresh comfort? Oswald, your presence is a ray from heaven—can I then fear you?—not dare to read your eyes? but fall before you as before my murderer? Oh, Oswald! Oswald!" and she threw herself at his feet in supplication. "What do I see," he exclaimed, raising her vehemently, "would you dishonor me? Well, be it so. My regiment embarks in a month. I will remain, if you betray this all-commanding grief, but I shall not survive my shame."—"I ask you not to stay," she said; "but what harm can I do by following you!"—"We go to the West Indies, and no officer is allowed to take his wife."—"Well, well, at least let me go to England with you."—"My letters also tell me," answered he, "that reports concerning us are already in the papers there; that your identity is suspected; and your family, excited by Lady Edgarmond, refuses to meet or own you. Give me but time to reconcile them, to enforce your rights with your step-mother; for if I take you thither, and leave you, ere your name be cleared, you will endure all the severe opinions which I shall not be by to answer."—"Then you refuse me everything!" she said, and sank insensible to the earth, her forehead receiving a wound in the fall. Oswald shrieked at the sight. Thérésina entered in extreme alarm, and restored her mistress to animation; but when Corinne perceived, in an opposite mirror, her own pale and disfigured face—"Oswald," she sighed, "it was not thus I looked the day you met me first. I wore the crown of hope and fame, now blood and dust are on my brow; yet it is not for you to despise the state to which you have reduced me. Others may—but you cannot—you ought to pity me for loving thus—you must!"—"Stay," he cried, "that is too much;" and signing for Thérésina to retire, he took Corinne in his arms, saying: "Do what thou wilt with me. I must submit to the decrees of Heaven. I cannot abandon thee in this distress, nor lead thee to England, before I have secured thee against the insults of that haughty woman. I will stay with thee. I cannot depart." These words recalled Corinne to herself, yet overwhelmed her with despair. She felt the necessity that weighed upon her, and with her head reclined, remained long silent.—"Dearest!" said Oswald, "let me hear thy voice. I have no other support—no other guide now."—"No," replied Corinne, "you must leave me," and a flood of tears evinced her comparative resignation—"My love," said Nevil, "I call to witness this portrait of my father, and you best know whether his name is sacred to me—I swear to it that my life is in thy power, if needful to thy happiness. At my return from the islands I will see if I cannot restore thee to thy due rank in thy father's country. If I fail, I will return to Italy, and live or die at thy feet."—"But the dangers you are about to brave," she rejoined.—"Fear not, I shall escape; or if I perish, unknown as I am, my memory will survive in thy heart; and when thou hearest my name, thou mayest say, perhaps with tearful eyes, 'I knew him once—he loved me!'"—"Ah, leave me!" she cried: "you are deceived by my apparent calm; to-morrow, when the sun rises, and I tell myself, 'I shall see him no more,' the thought may kill me; happy if it does."—"Why, Corinne, do you fear? is my solemn promise nothing? Can your heart doubt it?"—"No, I respect—too much not to believe you: it would cost me more to abjure mine admiration than my love. I look on you as an angelic being—the purest, noblest, that ever shone on earth. It is not alone your grace that captivates me, but the idea that so many virtues never before united in one object, and that your heavenly look was only given to express them all. Far be it from me, then, to doubt your word. I should fly from the human face forever if Lord Nevil could deceive; but absence has so many perils, and that dreaded word adieu——"—"Have I not said, never—save from my death-bed?" demanded Oswald, with such emotion that Corinne, terrified for his health, strove to restrain her feelings, and became more pitiable than before. They then began to concert means of writing, and to speak on the certainty of rejoining each other. A year was the term fixed. Oswald securely believed that the expedition would not be longer away. Some time was left them still, and Corinne trusted to regain her strength; but when Oswald told her that the gondola would come for him at three in the morning, and she saw, by her dial, that the hour was not far distant, she shivered as if she were approaching the stake: her lover had every instant less resolution; and, Corinne, who had never seen his mastery over himself thus unmanned, was heart-broken at the sight of his great anguish. She consoled him, though she must have been a thousand times the most unhappy of the two.—"Listen!" she said: "when you are in London, fickle gallants will tell you that love-promises bind not your honor; that every Englishman has liked some Italian on his travels, and forgotten her on his return; that a few pleasant months ought to involve neither the giver nor the receiver; that at your age the color of your whole life cannot depend upon the temporary fascinations of a foreigner. Now this will seem right in the way of the world; but will you, who know the heart of which you made yourself the lord, find excuses in these sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound? Will barbarous jests from men of the day prevent your hand's trembling as it drives the poniard through this breast?"—"Hush," said Oswald: "you know it is not your grief alone restrains me: but where could I find such bliss as I have owed to you? Who, in the universe, can understand me as you do? Corinne, you are the only woman who can feel or inspire true love, that harmonious intelligence of hearts and souls, which I shall never enjoy except with you. You know I am not fickle: I look on all things seriously; is it then against you only that I should belie my nature?"—"No," answered Corinne; "you would not treat my fond sincerity with scorn; it is not you, Oswald, who could remain insensible to my despair; but to you my step-mother will say all that can sully my past life. Spare me the task of telling you beforehand her pitiless remarks. Far from what talents I may boast disarming her, they are my greatest errors in her eyes. She cannot feel their charm, she only sees their danger: whatever is unlike the destiny she herself chose seems useless, if not culpable. The poetry of the heart to her appears but an impertinence, which usurps the right of depreciating common sense. It is in the name of virtues I respect as much as you do that she will condemn my character and fate. Oswald, she will call me unworthy of you."—"And how should I hear that?" interrupted he: "what virtues dare she rate above your generosity, your frankness? No, heavenly creature! be common minds judged by common rules; but shame befall the being you have loved who does not more revere than even adore you. Peerless in love and truth, Corinne! my firmness fails; if you sustain me not, I can never fly. It is from you I must receive the power to pain you."—"Well," said Corinne, "there are some seconds yet ere I must recommend myself to God, and beg he will enable me to hear the hour of your departure strike. Oh, Oswald, we love each other with deep tenderness. I have intrusted you with all my secrets; the facts were nothing—but the most private feelings of my heart, you know them all. I have not a thought that is not wedded to thee: if I write aught in which my soul expands, thou art mine inspiration. I address myself to thee, as I shall my latest sigh. What, then, is my asylum if thou leavest me? The arts will retrace thine image, music thy voice. Genius, which formerly entranced my spirit, is nothing now but love, and unshared with thee must perish. Oh, God!" she added, raising her eyes to heaven, "deign but to hear me! Thou art not merciless to our noblest sorrows; take back my life when he has ceased to love: it will be then but suffering. He carries with him all my highest, softest feelings: if he permits the fire shrined in his breast to be extinguished, wherever I may be, my life, too, will be quenched. Great God! thou didst not frame me to outlive my better self, and what should I become in ceasing to esteem him? He ought to love me ever—I feel he ought—my affection should command his! Oh! heavenly Father! death or his love!"
As she concluded this prayer she turned to Oswald, and beheld him prostrated before her in strong convulsions: he repelled her cares, as if his reason were entirely lost. Corinne gently pressed his hand, repeating to him all he had said to her, assuring him that she relied on his return. Her words somewhat composed him; yet the nearer the hour of separation drew, the more impossible it seemed to part. "Why," he said, "should we not go to the altar and at once take our eternal oaths?" All the firmness, all the pride of Corinne, revived at these words. Oswald had told her that a woman's grief once before subdued him, but his love had chilled with every sacrifice he made. After a moment's silence, she replied: "No, you must see your country and your friends before you adopt this resolution. I owe it now, my Lord, to the pangs of parting, and I will not accept it." He took her hand. "At least," he said, "I swear again my faith is bound to this ring; while you preserve it, never shall another attain a right over my actions; if you at last reject me, and send it back——"—"Cease," she interposed, "cease to talk of a fear you never felt; I cannot be the first to break our sacred tie, and almost blush to assure you of what you but too well know already." Meanwhile, the time advanced. Corinne turned pale at every sound. Nevil remained in speechless grief beside her; at last a light gleamed through the window, and the black, hearse-like gondola stopped before the door. Corinne uttered a scream of fright, and fell into Oswald's arms, crying: "They are here—adieu—leave me—all is over!"—"Oh God, oh my father!" he exclaimed; "what do ye exact of me?" He embraced and wept over his beloved, who continued: "Go! it must be done—go!"—"Let me call Thérésina," he said; "I cannot leave you thus alone."—"Alone!" she repeated: "shall I not be alone till you return?"—"I cannot quit this room; it is impossible," he articulated, with desperation.—"Well," said Corinne, "then it is I must give the signal. I will open the door; but when I have done so, spare me a few short instants."—"Yes, yes," he murmured, "let us be still together, though these cruel combats are even worse than absence." They now heard the boatmen calling up Lord Nevil's servants; one of whom soon tapped at the door, informing him that all was ready.—"All is ready," echoed Corinne, and knelt beside his father's portrait. Doubtless, her former life then passed in review before her; she exaggerated every fault, and feared herself unworthy of Divine compassion, though far too wretched to exist without it. When she arose, she held forth her hand to Nevil, saying: "Now I can bid you farewell—a moment more, and, perhaps, I could not. May God protect your steps and mine—for I must need his care!" Oswald flung himself once more into her arms, trembling and pale like one prepared for torture, and left the room, where, perhaps, for the last time, he had loved, and felt himself beloved, as few have ever been, or ever can be.
When he disappeared, a horrid palpitation attacked Corinne; she could not breathe; everything she beheld looked unreal; objects seemed vanishing from her sight; the chamber tottering as from a shock of earthquake. For a quarter of an hour she heard the servants completing the preparations for this journey. He was still near; she might yet again behold him, speak to him once more; but she would not trust herself. Oswald lay almost senseless in the gondola. At last it rowed away: and at that moment, Corinne fled forth to recall him; but Thérésina stopped her. A heavy rain was falling, and a high wind arose; the house was now, indeed, shaken like a ship at sea, and Oswald had to cross the Lagune in such weather! Corinne descended, purposing to follow him, at least till he should land in safety; but it was so dark that not a single gondola was plying: she walked, in dreadful agitation, the narrow pavement that divides the houses from the water. The storm increased; she called upon the boatmen, who mistook her cries for those of some poor creature drowning—yet no one dared approach, the waves of the grand canal had swollen so formidably. Corinne remained till daybreak in this state; meanwhile the tempest ceased. One of the gondoliers brought word from Oswald that he had crossed securely. That moment was almost a happy one; and it was some hours ere the unfortunate creature again felt the full weight of absence, or calculated the long days which but anxiety and grief might henceforth occupy.
[CHAPTER IV.]
During the first part of his journey, Oswald was frequently on the point of returning; but the motives for perseverance vanquished this desire. We make a solemn step towards the limits of Love's empire, after we have once disobeyed him—the dream of his resistlessness is over. On approaching England, all Oswald's homefelt recollections returned. The year he had passed abroad had no connection with any other era of his life. A glorious apparition had charmed his fancy, but could not change the tastes, the opinions, of which his existence had been, till then, composed. He regained himself; and though regret prevented his yet feeling any delight, his thoughts began to steady from the Italian intoxication which had unsettled them. No sooner had he landed, than his mind was struck with the ease, the order, the wealth, and industry he looked on; the habits and inclinations to which he was born waked with more force than ever.