Mr. Dickson paid his respects to the young couple, apologizing for not having been present at their marriage. He had been ill, he said, from the effects of a fall, though kindly assisted by the most charming woman in the world. Oswald, at this moment, was playing battledore and shuttlecock with Lucy, who was very graceful at this exercise. Her bridegroom gazed on her, and listened not to Mr. Dickson, who, at last, called to him from the other end of the room. "My Lord, the fair unknown, who came to my aid, had certainly heard much about you, for she asked me many questions concerning your fate."—"Whom do you mean?" said Nevil, continuing his game.—"A lovely creature, my Lord, although she looked changed by suffering, and could not speak of you without emotion."[1] These words attracted Oswald's attention; but Lucy, perfectly unconcerned, joined her mother, who had just sent for her. Lord Nevil now asked Mr. Dickson what lady it was who had thus spoken of him. "I know not," he replied: "her accent proved her English, though I have rarely found so obliging and easy a person among our countrywomen. She took as much care of a poor old man like me as if she had been my own child: while I was beside her, I did not feel my bruises; but, my dear Oswald, have you been faithless here as well as in Italy? My beauteous benefactress trembled and turned pale at naming you."—"Just heaven!" exclaimed Nevil, "you said an Englishwoman?"—"Oh yes: you know foreigners never pronounce our language without a certain intonation."—"And her face?"—"The most expressive I ever saw, though fearfully pale and thin." This description suited not the bright Corinne; yet might she not have suffered much, if in England, and unable to find the being she sought? This dread fell suddenly on Oswald, who continued his questions with extreme uneasiness. Mr. Dickson replied that the lady conversed with an elegance which he had never before met, that the gentlest kindness spoke from her sad and languid eyes. "Did you notice their color?" asked Oswald.—"Magnificently dark!" The catechist trembled. "From time to time," continued Mr. Dickson, "she interrogated, or answered, me, and what she did say was delightful." He would have proceeded, but Lady Nevil, with her mother, rejoined them; and Oswald hastily retired, hoping soon again to find Mr. Dickson alone. Struck by his sadness, Lady Edgarmond sent Lucy away, that she might inquire its cause: her guest simply repeated what had passed. Terrified at anticipating the despair of Oswald, if he were assured that Corinne had followed him to Scotland; foreseeing, too, that he would resume this topic, she instructed Mr. Dickson as to what she wished said to her son-in-law. Thus, the old gentleman only increased the anxiety it was too late to remove. Oswald now asked his servant if all the letters sent him within the last three weeks had come by post.[2] The man "believed they had," and was leaving the room; but, turning back, added, "I remember that, on the ball night, a blind man gave me one for your Lordship. I supposed it a petition for charity."—"I received none such: could you find this man?"—"Yes, my Lord, directly; he lives in the village."—"Go, bring him to me!" said Nevil; and, unable to wait patiently, walked out to meet him at the end of the avenue. "So, my friend," he said, "you brought a letter here for me, on the evening of the ball: who gave it to you?"—"My Lord, ye see I'm blind, how wad I ken?"—"Do you think it was a female?"—"Ech fine that, my Lord! for I hard weel eneuch that she was vera soft voiced, though I jaloused the while that she was greeting."—"And what did she say to you?"—"Oh, sir, she said, 'Gude auld man, gide this to Oswald's servant,' and there stopped, but syne she added, 'I mean Lord Nevil's.'"—"Ah, Corinne!" exclaimed Oswald, and grew so faint that he was forced to support himself on the poor creature's arm, who continued; "I was sitting under a tree just, and wished to do the leddy's bidding diract, but could scarce raise mysel, being auld the noo: weel, after giein me mair siller than I'd had for lang, she was that free she lent me her hand, puir thing! it trembled just as your Lordship's does this minute."—"Enough!" sighed Nevil. "Here, my good friend, as she gave you money, let me do so too; go, and pray for us both!" He withdrew.
From this moment a terrible agitation preyed on his mind: he made a thousand useless inquiries, unable to conceive the possibility of Corinne's having been in Scotland without seeking him. He formed various conjectures as to her motives; and, in spite of all his endeavors to conceal it, this affliction was evident to Lady Edgarmond, nay, even to Lucy. All was constraint and silence. At this time Oswald wrote first to Castel Forte. Had Corinne read that letter, it would much have softened her resentment.
Count d'Erfeuil joined the Nevils ere the Prince's reply arrived. He said no more of Corinne than was necessary, yet felt vexed at their not perceiving that he had an important secret in his power, though too discreet to betray it. His insinuations at first took no effect upon Oswald; but, when he detected that they referred to Corinne, he was all curiosity. The Count having brought him to this, defended his own trust pretty bravely; at last, however, his friend drew forth the whole truth. It was a pleasure for d'Erfeuil to relate how grateful Corinne had felt, and in what a wretched state he had found her; he ran on, without observing how he agonized Lord Nevil; his only object was that of being the hero of his own story; when he had ceased, he was much afflicted at the mischief he had done. Oswald had commanded himself till then, but suddenly became distracted with regret; accused himself as the most barbarous and ungrateful of men; raved of Corinne's devoted tenderness: her generosity at the very moment when she believed him most culpable. He contrasted this with the heartless fickleness by which he had requited her; incessantly repeating that no one ever loved him as she did; and that he should in some way be ultimately punished for his cruelty. He would have set forth to see her, if only for a day, an hour; but Rome and Florence were already occupied by the French: his regiment was about to embark; he could not forfeit his own honor, nor break the heart of his wife: indeed, no faults he might now commit could repair the past; they would but add to the misery he had occasioned. The only hope that calmed him was derived from the dangers he was about to brave. In this mood he wrote again to Castel Forte, whose replies represented Corinne as sad, but resigned; his pride in her softened rather than exaggerated the truth. Oswald believed that he ought not to torture her by his regrets, after having so wronged her by his love—and left Britain with a sense of remorse which nearly rendered life insupportable.
[1] Even had not Mr. Dickson been aware of Oswald's circumstances, such a speech before his bride would have been bad enough. It is unpardonable, as he knew so much.—TR.
[2] I wonder he had not observed that Corinne's bore no post-mark.—TR.
[CHAPTER III.]
Lucy was afflicted by his departure; yet his recent gloom had so increased her natural timidity, that she had never found courage to confide in him her hopes of becoming a mother; but left it for Lady Edgarmond to send these tidings after him. Nevil, unable to guess what passed in his wife's heart, had thought her farewell cold; compared her silent submission with the eloquence of Corinne, and hesitated not to believe that Lucy loved him but feebly; yet, during his absence, scarcely could even the birth of their daughter divert her mind from his perils. Another grief was added to all this. D'Erfeuil spent a year in Scotland, strongly persuaded that he had not revealed the secret of Corinne's sojourn there; but he said so much that implied it, and found such difficulty, when conversation flagged, in avoiding the theme most interesting to Lady Nevil, that she at last learned the whole truth. Innocent as she was, it required even less art than she possessed to draw d'Erfeuil out upon a favorite subject. Lady Edgarmond was too ill to be present at these conversations; but when she questioned her daughter on the melancholy she detected, Lucy told all. Her mother spoke very severely on Corinne's pursuit of Oswald. Lucy was alternately jealous of her sister, and indignant against her husband, for deserting one to whom he had been so dear. She could not help trembling for her own peace, with a man who had thus wrecked that of another. She had ever cherished a grateful recollection of her early instructress, which now blended with sympathy: far from feeling flattered by Oswald's sacrifice, she was tormented by the idea that he had chosen her merely because her position in the world was more advantageous than that of Corinne. She remembered his hesitation before marriage, his sadness so soon after, and everything confirmed the cruel belief that her husband loved her not. Lady Edgarmond might have been of great service to her daughter, had she striven to calm her; but she too intolerantly anathematized all sentiments that deviated from the line of duty; nor dreamed of tenderly leading a wanderer back, thinking that the only way to awake conscience was by just resentment. She was mortified that so lovely a woman should be so ill appreciated; and aggravated Lucy's fears, in order to excite her pride. Lady Nevil, more gentle and enlightened than her mother, could not rigorously follow such advice; yet her letters to Oswald were always far colder than her heart. Meanwhile he was distinguishing himself nobly, exposing his life, not merely in honorable enthusiasm, but in a positive love of peril. He appeared most gay when most actively employed, and would blush with pleasure when the tumult of battle commenced. At such moments a weight seemed lifted from his heart, and he could breathe with ease. The popularity he enjoyed among his fellow-soldiers animated the existence it could not render happy, and almost blinded him both to the past and the future. He grew accustomed to the lukewarm correspondence of his wife, whom he did not suppose offended with him. When he remembered her, it was as a being worthy of his protection, and whose mind he ought to spare from all deeply serious thoughts. But in those splendid tropic nights, that give so grand an idea of nature and its Author, the image of Corinne was often with him; yet, as both war and climate menaced his life each hour, he excused his lingering memory. At the approach of eternity, we forgive and hope to be forgiven. He thought but of the tears his death would cause her, not upon those his errors had extorted. It was natural he should think most of her; they had so often talked of immortality, and sounded every depth of solemn feeling: he fancied that he still conversed with her, while occupied by the great thoughts the spectacles of war invariably suggest. It was to Corinne he spoke in solitude, although he knew that she must sadly blame him. Despite absence, distance, time, and every change, they seemed to understand each other still.
At last his regiment was ordered home. The monotony of shipboard pleased him less than had the stir of arms. External excitement supplied some of the imaginative joys he owed to his intercourse with Corinne. He had not yet attempted to live calmly without her. The proofs of devotion his soldiers gave him somewhat beguiled the voyage; but even that interest failed on their landing in England.