In a land where men have so much dignity, and women so much virtue, where domestic peace is the basis of public welfare, Oswald could but remember Italy to pity her. He saw the stamp of human reason upon all things; he had lately found, in social life as in state institutions, nothing but confusion, weakness, and ignorance. Painting and poetry gave place in his heart to freedom and to morals; and, much as he loved Corinne, he gently blamed her for wearying of a race so wise, so noble. Had he left her imaginative land for one of bare frivolity, he would have pined for it still; but now he exchanged the vague yearnings after romantic rapture, for pride in the truest blessings—security and independence. He returned to a career that suits man's mind—action that has an aim! Reverie may be the heritage of women, weak and resigned from their birth; but man would win what he desires: his courage irritates him against his fate, unless he can direct it by his will. In London, Oswald met his early friends: he heard that language so condensed in power, that it seems to imply more thoughts than it explains. Again he saw those serious countenances that kindle or that melt so suddenly, when deep affections triumph over their habit of reserve. He once more tasted the pleasure of making discoveries in the human heart, there by degrees revealed to the observant eye. He felt himself in his own land, and those who never left it know not by how many links it is endeared to them. The image of Corinne mingled with all these impressions; and the more reluctant he felt to leave his country, the more he wished to marry, and fix in Scotland with her. He was even impatient to embark that he might return the sooner; but the expedition was suspended, though still liable to be ordered abroad immediately. No officer, therefore, could dispose of his time even for a fortnight. Lord Nevil doubly felt his separation from Corinne, having neither leisure nor liberty to form or follow any decided plan. He passed six weeks in London, fretted by every moment thus lost to her. Finally, he resolved to beguile his impatience by a short visit to Northumberland, and, by influencing Lady Edgarmond to recognize the daughter of her late Lord, contradict the report of her death, and the unfavorable insinuations of the papers: for he longed to tender her the rank and respect so thoroughly her due.
[CHAPTER V.]
Oswald reflected with emotion that he was about to behold the scene in which Corinne had passed so many years. He felt embarrassed by the necessity of informing Lady Edgarmond that he could not make Lucy his wife. The north of England, too, reminded him of Scotland, and the memory of his father was never absent from his mind.
When he reached Lady Edgarmond's estate, he was struck by the good taste which pervaded its grounds; and, as the mistress of the mansion was not ready to receive him, he walked awhile in the park: through its foliage he beheld a youthful and elegant figure reading with much attention. A beautiful fair curl, escaping from her bonnet, told him that this was Lucy, whom three years had improved from child to woman. He approached her, bowed, and forgetting where he was, would have imprinted a respectful kiss upon her hand, after the Italian mode; but the young lady drew back, and, blushing as she courtesied, replied, "I will inform my mother, sir, that you desire to see her." She withdrew, and Nevil remained awed by the modest air of that angelic face. Lucy had just entered her sixteenth year; her features were extremely delicate; she had a little outgrown her strength, as might be judged by her gait and mutable complexion. Her blue eyes were so downcast that her countenance owed its chief attraction to these rapid changes of color, which alone betrayed her feelings. Oswald, since he had dwelt in the south, had never beheld this species of expression. He reproached himself for having accosted her with such familiarity; and, as he followed her to the castle, mused on the perfect innocence of a girl who had never left her mother, nor felt one emotion stronger than filial tenderness. Lady Edgarmond was alone when she received him. He had seen her twice, some years before, without any particular notice; but now he observed her carefully, comparing her with the descriptions of Corinne. He found them correct in many respects; yet he thought that he detected more sensibility than she had done, not being accustomed, like himself, to guess what such self-regulated physiognomies conceal. His first anxiety was on Corinne's account, and he began the conversation by praising Italy. "It is an amusing residence for men," returned Lady Edgarmond; "but I should be very sorry if any woman, in whom I felt an interest, could long be pleased with it."—"And yet," continued Oswald, already hurt by this insinuation, "I found there the most distinguished woman I ever met."—"Probably, as to mental attainments; but an honorable man seeks other qualities in the companion of his life."—"And he would find them!" he said, warmly: he might have made his meaning clear at once, but that Lucy entered, and said a few words apart to her mother, who replied aloud: "No, my dear, you cannot go to your cousin's to-day. Lord Nevil dines here." Lucy blushed, seated herself beside her mother, and took up her embroidery, from which she never raised her eyes, nor did she utter a syllable. Nevil was almost angry: it was most probable that Lucy knew there had been some idea of their union: he remembered all Corinne had said on the probable effects of the severe education Lady Edgarmond would give her daughter. In England, young girls are usually more at liberty than married women: reason and morality alike favor their privileges; but Lady Edgarmond would have had all females thus rigorously secluded. Oswald could not, before Lucy, explain his intentions relative to Corinne; and Lady Edgarmond kept up a discourse on other subjects, with a firm and simple good sense, that extorted his deference. He would have combated her strict opinions, but he felt that if he used one word in a different acceptation from her own, she would form an opinion which nothing could efface; and he hesitated at this first step, so irreparable with a person who will make no individual exceptions, but judges everything by fixed and general rules. Dinner was announced; and Lucy offered her arm to Lady Edgarmond. Oswald then first discovered that his hostess walked with great difficulty. "I am suffering," she said, "from a painful, perhaps a fatal ailment." Lucy turned pale; and her mother resumed, with a more gentle cheerfulness: "My daughter's attention has once saved my life, and may preserve it long." Lucy bent her head, and when she raised it, her lashes were still wet with tears; yet she dared not even take her mother's hand: all had passed at the bottom of her heart; and she was only conscious of a stranger's presence, from the necessity of concealing her agitation. Oswald deeply felt this restraint of hers, and his mind, so lately thrilled by passionate eloquence, refreshed itself by contemplating so chastely simple a picture. Lucy seemed enveloped in some immaculate veil, that sweetly baffled his speculations. During dinner she spared her mother from all fatigue—serving everything herself; and Nevil only heard her voice when she offered to help him; but these common-place courtesies were performed with such enchanting grace, that he asked himself how it was possible for such slight actions to betray so much soul. "One must have," he said to himself, "either the genius of Corinne, that surpasses all one could imagine, or this pure unconscious mystery, which leaves every man free to suppose whatever virtues he prefers."
The mother and daughter rose from table: he would have followed them; but her Ladyship adhered so scrupulously to old customs, that she begged he would wait till they sent to let him know the tea was ready. He joined them in a quarter of an hour. Most part of the evening passed without his having one opportunity of speaking to Lady Edgarmond as he designed. He was about to depart for the town, purposing to return on the morrow, when his hostess offered him a room in the castle. He accepted it without deliberation; but repented his readiness, on perceiving that it seemed to be taken as a proof of his inclination towards Lucy. This was but an additional motive for his renewing the conversation respecting Corinne. Lady Edgarmond proposed a turn in the garden. Oswald offered her his arm; she looked at him steadfastly, and then said: "That is right: I thank you." Lucy resigned her parent to Nevil, but timidly whispered, "Pray, my Lord, walk slowly!" He started at this first private intelligence with her: those pitying tones were just such as he might have expected from a being above all earthly passions. He did not think his sense of such a moment any treason to Corinne. They returned for evening prayer, at which her Ladyship always assembled her household in the great hall. Most of them were very infirm, having served the fathers of Lord and Lady Edgarmond. Oswald was thus reminded of his paternal home. Every one knelt, except the matron, who, prevented by her lameness, listened with folded hands and downcast eyes in reverent silence. Lucy was on her knees beside her parent: it was her duty to read the service; a chapter of the Gospel, followed by a prayer adapted to domestic country life, composed by the mistress of the house: its somewhat austere expressions were contrasted by the soft voice that breathed them.
After blessing the king and country, the servants and the kindred of this family, Lucy tremblingly added, "Grant also, O God! that the young daughter of this house may live and die with soul unsullied by a single thought or feeling that conforms not with her duty; and that her mother, who must soon return to thee for judgment, may have some claim or pardon for her faults, in the virtues of her only child."
Lucy said this prayer daily; but now Oswald's presence so affected her, that tears, which she strove to conceal, flowed down her cheeks. He was touched with respectful tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infantine face, that looked as if it still remembered having dwelt in heaven. Its beauty, thus surrounded by age and decrepitude, was an image of divine commiseration. He reflected on her lonely life, deprived of all the pleasures, all the flatteries, due to her youth and charms: his soul melted towards her. The mother of Lucy, too, he found a person more severe to herself than to others. The limits of her mind might rather be attributed to the strength of her principles than to any natural deficiencies: the asperity of her character was acquired from repressed impulses; and, as Corinne had said, her affection for her child gained force from this extreme control of all others.
By ten in the evening all was silent throughout the castle, and Oswald left to muse over his last few hours: he owned not to himself that Lucy had made an impression on his heart; perhaps, as yet, this was not the case; but in spite of the thousand attractions Corinne offered to his fancy, there was one class of ideas, wherein Lucy might have reigned more supremely than her sister. The image of domestic felicity suited better with a retreat in Northumberland than with a coronation at the Capitol; besides, he remembered which of these sisters his father had selected for him: but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had given her his faith, and therefore persisted in his intention of confiding this to Lady Edgarmond on the morrow. He fell asleep thinking of Italy, but still the form of Lucy flitted lightly before him. He awoke: when he slept again, the same dream returned; at last this ethereal shape seemed flying from him; he strove to detain her, and started up, as she disappeared, fearing her lost to him. The day had broken, and he left his room to enjoy a morning walk.