[CHAPTER IV.]
Nevil had now to renew his acquaintance with his own family, after four years' separation. He arrived at Lady Edgarmond's castle in Northumberland. Lucy presented her child with as much diffidence as if she had deemed herself guilty. Her imagination had been so occupied by her sister, during the period of her maternal expectations, that little Juliet displayed the dark eyes and hair of Corinne. Her father, in wild agitation, pressed her to his heart; and from that instant, Lucy could not take unqualified delight in his affection for his daughter. The young wife was now nearly twenty. Her beauty had attained a dignity which inspired Nevil with respect. Lady Edgarmond was too infirm to leave her bed; yet, though this tried her temper, she received her son-in-law with satisfaction; having feared that she should die in his absence, and leave her daughter alone upon the world. Oswald, so long accustomed to a military career, found it very difficult to remain nearly all day in the chamber of an invalid, who received no one but himself and wife. Lucy dearly loved her lord; but, believing her affection unprized, concealed what she knew of his passion for Corinne, and became more silent than ever. Mild as she was, her mother had so influenced her, that when Oswald hinted at the added charm she would gain by a little animation, she received this but as a proof that he still preferred her sister, and was too hurt to profit by it: he could not speak of the fine arts without occasioning her a sadness that repressed his enthusiasm. Had she been better taught, she would have treasured up his lightest word, that she might study how to please him. Lady Edgarmond evinced a growing distaste for all deviations from her habitual routine: her irritated nerves shrunk from every sound. She would have reduced life to a state of stagnation, as if the less to regret its loss: but, as few like to confess their personal motives for certain opinions, she supported hers on the general principles of exaggerated morality; and disenchanted life, by making sins of its least amusements—by opposing some duty to every employment which would have made to-day differ from yesterday or to-morrow. Lucy, duteous as she was, had so much flexibility of mind that she would have joined her husband in gently reasoning with this exacting austerity, had she not been persuaded that it was adopted merely to discountenance Oswald's Italian predilections. "You must struggle most perseveringly," would her mother say, "against any return of that dangerous infatuation." Lord Nevil had a great reverence for duty; but he understood it in a wider sense than that of Lady Edgarmond: tracing it to its source, he found that it might perfectly accord with natural inclination, instead of requiring perpetual combats and sacrifices. Virtue, he thought, far from rendering life a torture, contributes to the duration of its happiness, and may be considered as a sort of prescience granted "to man alone beneath the heaven." Sometimes, in explaining these ideas, he yielded to the pleasure of quoting Corinne; but such language always offended his mother-in-law. New doctrines ever displease the old. They like to fancy that the world has been losing wisdom, instead of gaining it, since they were young. Lucy's heart instinctively detected the echoes of her sister's voice in the sentiments Oswald breathed with so much ardor. She would cast down her eyes to hide this consciousness; her husband, utterly unaware of it, attributed her apparent insensibility to want of comprehension; and not knowing where to seek congeniality sank into despondence. He wrote to Castel Forte for news of Corinne; but the war prevented the letter's arrival. His health suffered from the cold of England; and the physicians assured him that his chest would be again attacked, if he did not pass the winter in Italy. He told this to his wife and mother, adding, that the war between France and England must at present prevent his tour. "And when peace is concluded," said Lady Edgarmond, "I should hope, my Lord, that you would not think of returning to Italy."—"If his health depends on it," ventured Lucy, "he could not do better." Oswald expressed much gratitude for her kindness. Alas! his thanks but assured her of his love for another.
War ceased; and every time Oswald complained, Lucy's heart was divided between her dread of his departure for Italy, and her fondness, which overrated his indisposition. He attributed her doubt of the necessity for this voyage to selfishness: thus each wounded the other's feelings, because neither dared confess their own. All these interests were soon absorbed in the state of Lady Edgarmond, who was now speechless, and could only express herself by tears, or by the manner in which she pressed their hands. Lucy was in despair. Oswald sat up every night with her. It was now December; and these cares were highly injurious to him, though they seemed much to gratify the sufferer, whose faults disappeared just as her agonies would have excused them. The approach of death stills all the tumults of soul from which most of our errors proceed. On her last night, she joined the hands of Oswald and Lucy, pressed them to her heart, and raised her eyes to heaven; no longer deploring the voice which could have added nothing to the impressiveness of that action—that look. In a few seconds she expired.
Lord Nevil, who had supported himself by great effort, for her sake, now became dangerously ill, and poor Lucy's distress was thus redoubled. In his delirium, he often named Corinne, and Italy, sighing: "Oh, for the southern sun! it is so cold in the north here: I shall never be warm again." When he recovered his senses, he was surprised at finding that Lucy had prepared everything for his voyage: she merely repeated the advice of his physicians, adding: "If you will permit it, I shall accompany you; and our child ought not to be parted from her parents."—"No, no, we will not part," he answered; "but if this journey would pain you, I renounce it."—"That will not pain me," she replied. Oswald took her hand, and gazed inquiringly on her: she would have explained herself; but the memory of her mother's advice, never to betray a sign of jealousy, reproved her, and she added: "You must be sure, my Lord, that my first object is the re-establishment of your health."—"You have a sister in Italy," continued he.—"I know it: have you any tidings of her?"—"Never, since I left for America."—"Well, my Lord, we shall learn all in Italy."—"Are you then interested in her still?"—"Yes: I have not forgotten the tenderness she showed my childhood."—"We ought not to forget," sighed Nevil; and both again were silent. Oswald had too much delicacy to desire a renewal of his former ties with Corinne; but he thought that it would be sweet to die in Italy, after receiving her pardon and adieu. He little deemed that his delirium had betrayed him, and did injustice to the mind of his wife; because it had rather shown him the opinion of others than what she felt herself, he believed she loved him as much as she could love, but he knew nothing of her sensibility; at present, her pride disguised it; but, had she been perfectly happy, she would have thought it improper to avow a passionate affection even for her own husband; capable as she was of it, education had convinced her that it would be immodest to profess this feeling; but nothing could teach her to take pleasure in speaking of anything else.
[CHAPTER V.]
Oswald, disliking all recollections of France, crossed it very hastily. Lucy evinced neither wish nor will of any kind, but left it for him to decide everything. They reached the base of the mountains that separate Dauphiny from Savoy, and ascended the Pas des Echelles on foot: this road is dug in the rocks; its entrance resembles a deep cavern; it is dark throughout, even in the brightest days of summer. As yet, they found no snow; but autumn, the season of decay, was herself fast fading. The road was covered with dead leaves, borne to this region on the gale, from the distant trees. Thus they saw the wreck of nature without beholding any promise of her revival. The sight of the mountains charmed Lord Nevil: while we live among plains, the earth seems only made to bear and nourish man; but in picturesque countries we see the impress of their Creator's power and genius; yet man is everywhere familiarized with nature: the roads he frames ascend the steep, or fathom the abyss; nothing is inaccessible to him, save the great mystery of his own being. In Morienne, the winter was more rigorously felt at every step: one might fancy one's self wending northward, in approaching Mont Cenis. Lucy, who had never travelled before, was alarmed at finding the ice render the horses' pace unsteady: she hid her fears, but reproached herself for having brought her little one with her: often doubting whether the resolve to do so had been purely moral, or whether the hope of growing dearer to Oswald, by constantly associating her image with that of their beloved child, had not deadened her to the risks Juliet would thus incur. Lucy was apt to perplex her mind with secret scruples of conscience; the more virtuous we are, the more this kind of fastidiousness increases: she had no resource, save in her long and silent prayers, which somewhat tranquillized her spirit. The landscape now took a more terrific character: the snow fell heavily on ground already covered with it. They seemed entering the Hell of Ice described by Dante. From the foot of the precipices to the mountain-tops, all varieties were concealed. The pines, now clothed in white, were mirrored in the winter like spectral trees. Oswald and Lucy gazed in silence; speech would have seemed presumptuous; nature was frozen into dumbness, and they were mute like her. Suddenly they perceived, on an immense extent of snow, a long file of darkly clad figures carrying a bier towards a church. These priests, the only living beings who broke this desert solitude, preserved their wonted pace. The thought of death lent it a gravity which not even the bleakness of the air tempted them to forget. Here was the mourning of nature and of man for vegetable and for human life.
No color was left—that black, that white, thus united, struck the soul with awe. "What a sad omen!" sighed Lady Nevil.—"Lucy," interrupted Oswald, "trust me, it is not for you."—"Alas!" he thought, "it was not beneath such auspices I travelled with Corinne. Where is she now? may not these gloomy objects be but warnings of what I am to suffer?" Lucy's nerves were shaken by the terrors of her journey. This kind of fear is almost unknown to an intrepid man; and she mistook for carelessness of her, Oswald's ignorance of such alarm's possible existence. The common people, who have no better exercise for fancy, love to exaggerate all hazards, and delight in the effect they thus produce on their superiors. The inn-keepers, every winter, tell their guests wild tales of "le Mont," as if it were an immovable monster, guarding the vales that lead to the land of promise. They watch the weather for formidable symptoms, and beg all foreigners to avoid crossing Mont Cenis during la tourmente. This is a wind announced by a white cloud, spread like a sheet in the air, and by degrees covering the whole horizon. Lucy had gained all possible information, unknown to Nevil, who was too much occupied by the sensation of re-entering Italy to think on these reports. The possible end and aim of his pilgrimage agitated his wife still more than did the journey itself, and she judged everything unfavorably. In the morning of their ascent, several peasants beset her with forebodings; those hired to carry her up the mountain, however, assured her that there was nothing to apprehend: she looked at Nevil, and saw that he laughed at these predictions; therefore, piqued by his security, she professed herself ready to depart. He knew not how much this resolution cost her, but mounted a horse and followed the litter which bore his wife and child. The way was easy, till they were about the centre of the flat which precedes the descent, when a violent hurricane arose. Drifts of snow blinded Lucy's bearers, and often hid Oswald from her view. The religious men who devote their lives to succor travellers on the Alps began to ring their alarm-bell; yet, though this sound proclaimed the neighborhood of benevolent pity, its rapid and heavy repetition seemed more expressive of dismay than assistance. Lucy hoped that Oswald would propose passing the night at this monastery; but, as she said nothing, he thought it best to hasten on, while daylight lasted. Lucy's bearers inquired, with some uneasiness, if she wished them to descend. "Yes," she said, "since my Lord does not oppose it." She erred in thus suppressing her feelings: the presence of her child would have excused them; but, while we love one by whom we cannot deem ourselves beloved, each instant brings its own sense of humiliation. Oswald remained on horseback, though that was the least safe method of descent, but he believed himself thus secure against losing sight of his wife and child. From the summit, Lucy looked down on the abrupt road which she would have taken for a precipice, had not steeps still more perpendicular been close at hand. She pressed her darling to her heart with strong emotion. Oswald observed this, and, quitting his saddle, joined the men who carried her litter. The graceful zeal with which he did this filled her eyes with tears; but, at that instant, the whirlwind rose so furiously that her bearers fell on their knees, exclaiming: "O God, protect us!" Lucy regained her courage; and, raising herself, held Juliet towards Lord Nevil. "Take your child, my love!" she said. Oswald received it, answering: "And you too—-come, I can carry ye both!"—"No," she said, "only save her!!"—"Save!" he repeated: "is there any danger? Unhappy wretches—why did you not tell us?"—"They did," interrupted Lucy.—"And you concealed it from me? How have I merited is cruel reserve?" He wrapped his cloak round Juliet, and cast down his eyes in deep disquietude; but heaven most mercifully appeased the storm, and lent a ray which showed them the fertile plains of Piedmont. In another hour they arrived unharmed at Novalaise, the first Italian town after crossing Mont Cenis. On entering the inn, Lucy embraced her child, and returned her fervent thanks to God. Oswald leaned pensively near the fire, and, when she rose, held out his hand to her, saying: "You were alarmed then, love?"—"Yes, dear."—"Why would you go on?"—"You seemed impatient to proceed."—"Do you not know that, above all things, I dread exposing you to pain or danger?"—"It is for Juliet that they are to be dreaded," she replied, taking the little one on her lap to warm it, and twisting round her fingers the beautiful black curls that the snow had matted on that fair brow.[1] The mother and child formed so charming a picture, that Oswald gazed on them with tender admiration; but Lucy's silence discouraged the feeling which might else have led to a mutual understanding. They arrived at Turin, where the season was unusually severe. The vast apartments of Italy were destined to receive the sun. Their freshness in summer is most welcome; but, in the depth of winter, they seem cheerless deserts; and their possessors feel like pigmies in the abode of giants. The death of Alfieri had just occasioned a general mourning among his proud countrymen. Nevil no longer recognized the gayety formerly so dear to him. The absence of her he loved disenchanted both nature and art: he sought intelligence of her, and learned that for five years she had published nothing, but lived in seclusion at Florence. He resolved on going thither; not to remain, and thus violate the affection he owed to Lucy, but to tell Corinne how ignorant he had been of her residence in Scotland. In crossing Lombardy, he sighed: "How beautiful this was, when all those elms were in full leaf, with vines linking them together!"—"How beautiful it was," thought Lucy, "while Corinne shared it with you!" A humid fog, such as oft arises in so well-watered a land, obscured their view of the country. During the night they heard the deluge of southern rain fall on, nay, through the roof, as if water was pursuing them with all the avidity of fire. Lucy sought in vain for the charm of Italy: it seemed that everything conspired to veil it in gloom for Oswald and herself.