Chapter III

The unhappy man shut himself in his room. At the dinner hour, Lucy, leading Juliet by the hand, tapped gently at his door; he opened it, saying: "Think not the worse of me, my dear, for begging that I may be left to myself to-day." His wife raised her child in her arms, and retired without a word. He now looked at the letter he had written to Corinne, and, bursting into tears exclaimed: "Shall I, then, make poor Lucy wretched too? What is my life worth, if it serves but to render all who love me miserable?"

_Letter from Lord Nevil to Corinne._

"Were you not the most generous of human beings, what could
I say to you, who might weigh me so low by reproaches,
or still lower by your griefs? I have done such ill to
her I loved, that I almost believe myself a monster. Am
I, Corinne? I suffer so much, that I cannot think myself
an utter barbarian! You know, when first I met you, I
was a prey to despair, that nearly brought me to the
grave: I sought not happiness, but struggled long against
your attraction; even when it triumphed, presentiments
of misfortune lingered still. Sometimes I believed you
destined by my father to make me once more feel myself
as well beloved as I had been by him; then did I fear to
disobey his will, in marrying a foreigner. On my return to
England, this sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was
by parental authority. Had he still lived, I should have
felt a right to combat it; but the dead cannot hear us, and
the irrevocable commands of those now powerless, possess a
touching and a sacred force.--Once more surrounded by the
ties of country, I met your sister, selected for me by my
sire, and well according with my wish for a regular, a quiet
life. My weakness makes me dread some kinds of agitation:
my mind is easily seduced by new hopes; but my sick soul
shrinks from resolves that interfere with its original
habits or affections. Yet, Corinne, had I known you were in
England, that proof of tenderness would have decided me.
Ah! wherefore vaunt I what I would have done? Should we
have been content? Am I capable of being so? Could I ever
have chosen any one fate, without still pining after some
other? When you restored my liberty, I fell into the common
error, telling myself that so superior a woman might easily
be estranged from me. Corinne, I have wounded your heart, I
know; but I thought mine the only sacrifice: I deemed you
would forget me. I cannot deny that Lucy is worthy of a
still warmer attachment than I could give her; but since I
learned your voyage to England, and the sorrow I had dealt
you, my life has been a perpetual pain. I sought for death,
certain that when you heard I was no more, you would forgive
me. Doubtless, you can oppose to this years of fidelity and
regret, such as my ingratitude ill merits; yet think--a
thousand complicated circumstances invade the constancy of
man. Imagine, if possible, that I have neither given nor
received felicity; that my heart has been lonely since I
left you, scarce daring even to commune with itself; that
the mother of my child, who has so many titles to my love,
is a stranger to my history and feelings; in truth, that
my habitual sadness has reduced me to the state from which
your cares, Corinne once extracted me. If I have returned to
Italy, not for my health (you cannot suspect me of any love
for life), but to bid you farewell, can you refuse to see
me but once more? I wish it, because I think that it would
benefit you; my own sufferings less prompt this desire. What
use were it that I am miserable, that a dreadful weight
presses upon my heart, if I came hither without obtaining
pardon from you? I ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being
so; but I feel certain that you would be solaced, if you
could think upon me as your friend, and read, in Oswald's
looks and accents, how dear you are to the criminal whose
fate is far more altered than his heart. I respect the
ties I have formed, and love your sister; but the human
breast, wild and inconsistent as it is, can reconcile that
tenderness with what I feel for you. I have nothing to say
for myself that can be written; all I might explain would
but condemn me; yet, if you saw me prostrate before you,
through all my faults and duties, you would perceive what
you are to me still, and that conversation would leave a
balm for both. Our health is failing: Heaven may not accord
us length of days. Let, then, whichever may be destined to
precede the other, feel regretted by the dear friend left
behind. The innocent alone deserve such joy: but may it not
be granted to the guilty? Corinne, sublime soul! you who can
read all hearts, guess what I cannot add, and comprehend
me, as you used to do. Let me but see you; let my pallid
lips touch your weak hand! It was not I alone who wrought
this ruin. No; the same sentiment consumed us both: destiny
struck two hearts, devoting one to crime; that one, Corinne,
may not be the least pitiable."

_Answer._

"If I required but to see and pardon you, I could not for
an instant refuse. Why is it that I do not feel resentment,
although the pangs you have caused me are so dreadful? I
must still love you, not _to hate_. Religion alone would not
disarm me thus. There have been moments when my reason has
left me; others, far sweeter, when I hoped to die before
the day could end; and some in which I have doubted even
virtue: you were to me its image here below: there was no
guide for either my thoughts or feelings, when the same
blow struck both my admiration and my love. What would
have become of me without Heaven's help? Everything in
this world was poisoned by your image: one sole asylum was
left, and God received me. My strength decays, but not that
supporting enthusiasm. I joy to think that the best aim in
life is to become worthy of eternity: our bliss, our bane,
alike tend to this purpose: and you were chosen to uproot
the too strong hold I had on earth. Yet, when I saw your
handwriting, learned that you were but on the other side of
the river, a fearful tumult rose within me: incessantly was
I obliged to tell myself, 'My sister is his wife.' To see
you again appeared felicity: I will not deny that my heart,
inebriated afresh, preferred these indefinite raptures to
an age of calm: but Providence has not abandoned me in this
peril. Are you not the husband of another? What then have I
to say to you? Is it for me to die in your arms? What would
my conscience suffer, if I made no sacrifice? if I permitted
myself another hour with you? I can only appear before my
God with anything like confidence by renouncing it. This
resolution may appease my soul. Such happiness as I felt
while you loved me is not in harmony with our mortal state;
it agitates us, because we feel its fleetness: but religious
meditation, that aims at self-improvement, and refers every
cause to duty, is a state of peace; and I know not what
ravages the mere sound of your voice would make on the
repose I believe I have regained. Why do you tell me that
your health is impaired? Alas! I am no longer your nurse;
but still, I suffer with you. May God bless and prolong your
days, my Lord! Be happy, but be so through piety. A secret
communion with Divinity gives us in ourselves the power of
confiding to a being who consoles us: it makes two friends
of one spirit. Do you still seek for what the world calls
happiness? Where will you find more than my tenderness would
have bestowed? Know you that in the deserts of the New World
I should have blessed my lot had you permitted me to follow
you? I could have served you like a slave, have knelt before
you as a heavenly being, had you but loved me truly. What
have you done with so much faith? You have changed it into
an affliction peerless as itself. Outrage me not, then, by
one hope of happiness, except in prayer: let our thoughts
meet in heaven! Yet when I feel myself about to die, perhaps
I will be taken somewhere whence I may behold you pass.
Assuredly, when my failing eyes can see no more, your image
will be with me; but might not a recent review of your
features render it more distinct? Deities of old were never
present at the hour of death, so I forbid you mine; but I
should like to see you perfectly when Oswald, Oswald! behold
how weak I am, when abandoned to your recollection! Why has
not Lucy sought me? Though she is your wife, she is still my
sister. I have some kind and even generous things to tell
her. And your child--I ought not to meet you; but you are
surrounded by my family. Do they disown me still? or fear ye
that poor little Juliet would be scared at seeing me? Ghost
as I look, I yet could smile upon your daughter. Adieu, my
Lord, adieu! Remember that I might call you brother. At
least you will mourn for me externally, and, as a kinsman,
follow my remains to Rome: let them be borne by the road
where my car passed; and pause upon the spot where you
restored my crown. Yet no, I am wrong, Oswald: I could exact
nothing that could afflict you, only one tear, and sometimes
a fond look towards the heaven where I shall soon await you."