This gentleman in no way equalled the parent of Oswald, but he was with him at his death; and having been born in the same year, he seemed to linger behind but to carry Lord Nevil some tidings of his son. Oswald offered him his arm as they went up stairs; and felt a pleasure in paying attention to age, however little resembling that of his father. Mr. Dickson remembered Oswald's birth, and hesitated not to speak his mind on all that concerned his young friend, strongly reprimanding his connection with Corinne; but his weak arguments would have gained less ascendency over Oswald's mind than those of Lady Edgarmond, had he not handed him the letter to which she alluded. With considerable tremor he read as follows:—
"Will you forgive me, my dear friend, if I propose a change of plan in the union of our families? My son is more than a year younger than your eldest daughter; will it not be better, therefore, that he should wait for the little Lucy? I might confine myself to the subject of age; but, as I knew Miss Edgarmond's when first I named my wishes, I should deem myself wanting in confidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons for desiring that this marriage may not take place. We have known each other for twenty years, and may speak frankly of our children, especially while they are young enough to be improved by our opinions. Your daughter is a charming girl, but I seem to be gazing on one of those Grecian beauties, who, of old, enchanted and subdued the world. Do not be offended by this comparison. She can have received from you none but the purest principles; yet she certainly loves to produce an effect, and create a sensation: she has more genius than self-love; such talents as hers necessarily engender a taste for display; and I know no theatre that could suffice the activity of a spirit, whose impetuous fancy, and ardent feelings, break through each word she utters. She would inevitably wean my son from England; for such a woman could not be happy here: only Italy can content her. She must have that free life which is guided but by fantasy: our domestic country habits must thwart her every taste. A man born in this happy land ought to be in all things English, and fulfil the duties to which he is so fortunately called. In countries whose political institutions give men such honorable opportunities for public action, the women should bloom in the shade: can you expect so distinguished a person as your daughter to be satisfied with such a lot? Take my advice. Marry her in Italy; her religion and manners suit that country. If my son should wed her, I am sure it would be from love, for no one can be more engaging: to please her, he would endeavor to introduce foreign customs into his establishment, and would soon lose his national character, those prejudices, if you please to call them so, which unite us with each other, and render us a body free but indissoluble, or which can only be broken up by the death of its last associate. My son could not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy: he is sensitive, even to weakness; and his expatriation, if I lived to see it, would render me most miserable; not merely as deprived of my son, but as knowing him lost to the glory of serving his native land. Is it worthy a mountaineer to drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of Italy? A Scot become the cicisbeo of his own wife, if not of some other man's? Neither the guide nor the prop of his family! I even rejoice that Oswald is now in France, and still unknown to a lady whose empire over him would be too great. I dare conjure you, my dear friend, should I die before his marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daughter until Lucy be of an age to fix his affections. Let him learn my wishes, if requisite. I know he will respect them—the more if I should then be removed from this life. Give all your attention, I entreat you, to his union with Lucy. Child as she is, her features, look, and voice, all express the most endearing modesty. She will be a true Englishwoman, and may constitute the happiness of my boy. If I do not live to witness their felicity, I shall exult over it in heaven; and when we reunite there, my dear friend, our prayers and benedictions will protect our children still.
"Ever yours,
"NEVIL."
After reading this, Oswald remained silent, and left Mr. Dickson time to continue his long discourse without interruption. He admired the judgment of his friend, who, nevertheless, he said, was far from anticipating the reprehensible life Miss Edgarmond had since led: a marriage between Oswald and herself now, he added, would be an eternal insult to Lord Nevil's memory; who, it appeared, during his son's fatal residence in France, had passed a whole summer at Lady Edgarmond's, solacing himself by superintending the education of his favorite Lucy. In fact without either artifice or forbearance, Mr. Dickson attacked the heart of Oswald through all the avenues of sensibility. Thus everything conspired against the absent Corinne, who had no means, save letters, for reviving from time to time, the tenderness of Oswald. She had to contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the exhortation of his friends in favor of resolutions so easy to adopt, as they led him towards a budding, beauty, whose every charm seemed to harmonize with the calm, chaste hopes of a domestic lot.
[BOOK XVII.]
CORINNE IN SCOTLAND.
[CHAPTER I.]
Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the Brenta: she could not quit the scenes in which she had last met Oswald—and also hoped that she should here receive her letters earlier than at Rome. Prince Castel Forte had written, begging leave to visit her; but she refused. The friendship existing between them commanded mutual confidence; and had he striven to detach her from her love—had he told her what she so often told herself—that absence must decrease Nevil's attachment, one inconsiderate word would have been a dagger to her heart. She wished to see no one; yet it is not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent, and its situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude require peace of mind; if that be lost, forced gayety, however troublesome, is more serviceable than meditation. If we could trace madness to its source, we should surely find that it originated in the power of one single thought, which excluded all mental variety. Corinne's imagination consumed herself, unless diverted by external excitement. What a life now succeeded that which she had led for nearly a year, with the man of her heart's choice forever with her, as her most appreciating companion, her tenderest friend, and fondest lover! Now, all was barren around and gloomy within her. The only interesting event was the arrival of a letter from him; and the irregularity of the post, during winter, every day tormented her with expectations, often disappointed. Each morning she walked on the banks of the canal, now covered by large-leaved water-lilies, watching for the black gondola, which she had learned to distinguish afar off. How did her heart beat, as she perceived it! Sometimes the messenger would answer: "No letters for you, madame," and carelessly proceeded to other matters, as if nothing were so simple as to have no letters; another time he would say: "Yes, madame, here are some." She ran over them all with a trembling hand: if the well-known characters of Oswald met not her eye, the day was terrible, the night sleepless the morrow redoubled her anxiety and suspense. "Surely," she thought, "he might write more frequently;" and her next letter reproached his silence. He justified himself; but his style had already lost some of its tenderness: instead of expressing his own solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers. This change did not escape her: day and night would she reperuse a particular phrase, seeking some new interpretation on which to build a few days' composure. This state shattered her nerves: she became superstitious. Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may draw presages from everything. One day in every week she she went to Venice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some hours earlier: this merely varied the tortures of waiting; and in a short time she conceived as great a horror for every object she encountered on her way, as if they had been the spectres of her own thoughts, reappearing clothed in the most dreadful aspects. Once, on entering the church of St. Mark, she remembered how, on her arrival in Venice, the idea had occurred to her that perhaps, ere she departed, Oswald would lead her thither to call her his in sight of Heaven. She gave way once more to this illusion; saw him approach the altar; heard him vow before his God to love her forever; they knelt together, and she received the nuptial crown. The organ, then playing, and the lights that shone through the aisle, gave life to her vision; and for a moment she felt not the cruel void of absence: but suddenly a dreary murmur succeeded—she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the church. She staggered; her sight almost failed; and from that moment she felt convinced that her love for Oswald would lead her but to the grave.