"Scarcely can we now say: 'This was a rose!'"
"How!" cried Lord Nevil; "looks she like this?"---"Within the last fortnight still worse," returned the Prince; and Oswald rushed from him, as if distracted.
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?"
"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.