“’My dear child, he said to me once, it is not here as in Italy; our women have no occupation save their domestic uses.  Your talents may beguile your solitude; but in a country town like this all that attracts attention excites envy.  One must not combat the habits of a place in which one is established.  It is better to bear a little ennui than to be beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons for what you do.’

“Lord Nevil was my father’s intimate friend, and it was yourself of whom he thought for my husband.  Had we then met and loved, our fate would have been cloudless.  But when I was presented to Lord Nevil I desired, perhaps too ardently, to please him; I displayed all my talents, dancing, singing, and extemporising before him—­I believe, though I am not certain—­that I appeared to Lord Nevil somewhat too wild; for although he treated me very kindly, yet, when he left my father he said that he thought his son too young for the marriage in question.  Oswald, what importance do you attach to this confession?  I might suppress it, but I will not.  Is it possible that it will prove my condemnation?

“When my father died, my despair was uncontrollable.  I found myself without support.  My only adult relation was my stepmother, who was as frigid as ever towards me.  I was attacked by that homesick yearning which makes exile more terrible than death.  All the country around me was dull and sullen.  I longed for the sunshine, the vine, the music, the sweet language of Italy.  At twenty-one I had a right to my mother’s fortune, and whatever my father had left me.  Then did I first dream of returning to Italy, and devoting my life to the arts.

“When I suggested the possibility of my doing so to Lady Edgarmond, she replied, with dry indifference, ’You are of age, and the mistress of your conduct; but if you take any step which would dishonour you in the eyes of the world, you owe it to your family to change your name and be reported dead.’  This heartless scorn helped me to come to a decision.  In less than a week I had embarked on a vessel for Leghorn.  I set forth without warning my stepmother, but left a letter apprising her of my plans.

“For a time I lived in Florence, whither Lady Edgarmond wrote me word of her having spread the report that I had travelled southwards for my health and had died on the voyage.  During the following five years, as you know, I won fame as Corinne the poetess.

“And now you know my history—­I have concealed nothing.  My happiness depends entirely upon you.  When you have read this, I would see you; my impatience will bring me to your side, and I shall read my fate at a glance; for grief is a rapid poison—­and the heart, though weak, never mistakes the signal of irrevocable destiny.”

IV.—­Parting and Pursuit

“Well,” said Corinne, struggling to appear calm, when she went to Oswald to learn her fate, “you have had time enough—­speak! tell me what you have resolved!”