Hildebrand; or, The Days of Queen Elizabeth, An Historic Romance, Vol. 3 of 3

by Anonymous

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Although the sudden and unannounced arrival of Don Felix diCorva, described in a former chapter, had overwhelmed Sir Edgarde Neville with surprise, that cavalier quickly recoveredhimself, and hastened to bid his relative welcome. Evaline,however, continued discomposed, and met the greeting of Don Felixwith undisguised coldness. The Spaniard affected to be insensibleof her resentment; but it did, notwithstanding, mortify himexceedingly, and he determined to avenge himself on her at thevery earliest opportunity.

  Such an opportunity was not to be afforded him that evening.Evaline, distracted with her anxieties, which the return of DonFelix had greatly augmented, shortly announced herself to be tooindisposed to remain up longer, and retired to her chamber. DonFelix was himself much fatigued, and, when Evaline had retired,he professed to have no inducement to stay up further, and alsobetook himself to his dormitory. But, fatigued as he was, it wasmore to pursue reflection, than to seek repose, which he hadpretended to be his aim, that he thus withdrew. When he laid hishead on his pillow, he sought rather to conjure up the past, withall the remembrances that a malignant disposition could draw fromit, than to recruit himself for the morrow. He could not say, inhis heart, that Evaline had at any time loved him; but there wasa time when she had not held him in dislike. Who had induced herto alter her sentiments? There, indeed, was the touch-stone,which searched and proved his nature!

  The Spaniard was not, under ordinary circumstances, what would becalled a bad man; and if no strong influences had been at workupon him, he might have passed through life, in its even anduntroubled channels, without developing a single evil quality.Still he was, in reality, possessed of a quality fruitful inevil, from which springs a host of bad and furious passions,and which is generally called by the name of “self-conceit.”He thought he was a _nonpareil_; and so long as, by the runof circumstances, he could appear in that character, he wasperfectly inoffensive, and rather disposed to serve a friend,than to crush a foe. But the man that, even involuntarily, daredto appear in his sphere to greater advantage than himself,did him an injury that he would never forgive. Then, on beingclosely viewed, the quality that had appeared more deservingof contempt, than worthy of fear, displayed its genuine andnative hideousness. It was bared to the root, and, in its nakedcolours, showed itself to be fraught with “envy, malice, and alluncharitableness.”

  Up to the time that Sir Edgar and Evaline formed the acquaintanceof Hildebrand Clifford, Don Felix had lived with those persons,in the seclusion of the Grange, in the style and position hedesired. But Hildebrand’s appearance on the stage was to open tohim a new and less auspicious era. A few days served to show him,by the altered bearing of the household, that he had now a rival,and that he could not enjoy the chief place in his sphere withouta struggle. His self-esteem quailed before the many superiorattractions of Hildebrand; but the superiority that, by throwinghim into the back-ground, quite obscured his moderate resources,excited his envy. He soon began to regard Hildebrand as an enemy;and, as has been already set forth, seized the first opportunitythat arose, in the absence of Sir Edgar and Evaline, to provokehim to a quarrel. The fact of Hildebrand having spared his lifeon that occasion, instead of invoking his gratitude, only madehim hate him the more; and the noble generosity that was abovehis understanding, he ascribed to indecision and fear.

  He now saw, what he had suspected before, that he had quite lostthe affections of Evaline, who had long been promised to him inmarriage, and firmly believed that they had been surrendered toHildebrand. This allowed, he had to consider how, in the eleventhhour, he could withdraw her love from Hildebrand, and transferit to himself. The scheme by which he proposed to effect such achange, stupendous as it might seem, was already devised.

  The morning following his return to the Grange found him astirearly. Nevertheless, he was shortly joined by Sir Edgar, whowas, like himself, of matutinal habits, and wont to be early up.They greeted each other cordially; and Sir Edgar then, thoughunconsciously, opened the way for that communication concerningHildebrand, which Don Felix was so anxious to deliver.

  “There is a proclamation out,” he said, “that all Spaniardsin this realm, of whatever degree, are either to quit itstraightway, or to give good and sufficient surety for theirbehaviours. But thou need’st not to be troubled hereat; for Iwill write off to London to-day, to my worshipful friend SirWalter Raleigh, and beseech him to act in this matter in mybehalf, and be thy surety.”

  “’Tis a good thought, and should be despatched with allconvenience,” replied Don Felix.

  “Yet there will be some delay in it, I dare affirm,” returnedSir Edgar. “’Twould be executed out of hand, an’ my good friendCaptain Clifford were here.”

  “Now, God forefend, Sir, I should ever take a service at hishand!” exclaimed Don Felix, with a show of excessive indignation.

  “And wherefore not, I prithee?” rejoined Sir Edgar. “But Iremember me, on second thought, you were at discord one time.Beseech thee, let me make you friends.”

  “Never!” cried Don Felix, vehemently.

  “That is a hard word, Felix,” answered Sir Edgar, in a tone ofremonstrance. “Let me not fall in thy regard, an’ I hold himdearly still; for the evil he hath done thee--if he have donethee any evil--cannot mete with the good he hath done me.”

  “He hath done no evil to mine own self,” replied Don Felix,“yet hath he wronged a friend of mine, whom I hold next tothee, beyond the utmost limit of forgiveness. But to make theeunderstand his guilt, I should have to unfold to thee, at morelength than thou mightst choose, its sum and particulars.”

  “’Fore God, thou makest me fairly marvel!” exclaimed Sir Edgar.“’Twere wronging him to hear thy tale; for, believe me, thyfriend, be he who he will, hath but practised on thee, and toldthee what is without truth.”

  “Then have mine own eyes deluded me!” cried Don Felix. “What Ibelieve, they saw!”

  “I’faith, thou grievest me, Felix,” said Sir Edgar. “Yet can Ihardly look ill on my friend, or do him even a thought’s wrong.But the matter! Leaven thy tale with kindness, and be brief.”

  “When I was lately in Cadiz,” said Don Felix, “I saw there oneday, prowling about the streets, a man whose favour I knew. Therewas with me the dear friend I spoke of--by name, Gonzalez; andseeing the man aforesaid walked about curiously, like a spy, wedogged him a while. He was no other than Captain Clifford.”

  “He was in Cadiz, I know,” observed Sir Edgar.

  “We followed him to the chapel of the cathedral,” resumed DonFelix, “where, to our singular admiration, we observed him to bein correspondence with a certain fair lady, my worthy friend’sward.”

  “This is no great harm,” smiled Sir Edgar.

  “Anon!” answered Don Felix. “Jealous of my friend’s reputation, Ikept a close watch on the young Donna; and, to be brief, on thenight following, while parading round the house, I nearly ranagainst Captain Clifford and her duenna, and tracked them fairlyto the Donna’s lodging.”

  “An’ this be the sum of his error, ’tis only matter for a littleraillery,” remarked Sir Edgar.

  “Mark me!” pursued Don Felix. “Stung with passion, I alarmed myfriend; and after a rigid search, within and without, we foundthe Donna and her seducer together. My tale must now be unfoldedin few. Don Gonzalez, reasonably enraged, committed CaptainClifford to prison. Howbeit, he had not been there long, when,as we have been advised since, on the confession of the duenna,he was visited by his poor victim, disguised as a cavalier. Inthat guise, she enabled him to escape; and, under the name of DonRafaele”--

  Sir Edgar started. “By God’s suffering,” he cried, “she was withhim in this house! An’ I live to see him, I will call him toaccount for ’t.”

  “Thou must mistake,” answered Don Felix, with affected horror,yet really transported with joy. “He would never so affrontthee, his friend, and my fair Evaline, as to bring his betrayedbelamour hither.”

  Sir Edgar was so overcome with indignation, that f
or severalminutes, though he strove to repress his feelings, he could notsufficiently calm himself to reply. Then, however, he spoke atlength, and with all the bitterness which, viewing Hildebrand’serror in the light now laid down, might be expected from a manof honour, and a parent. Though he had yet something to say, DonFelix, with characteristic cunning, suffered Sir Edgar to talkhimself out, when he opened to him what he deemed a more excitingsubject.

  “I fear me, he hath even done harm here,” he said. “An’ it be so,my peace, which he hath already disturbed, is utterly lost, and’twill scarcely go less grievous with Evaline.”

  Sir Edgar’s cheeks burned again. “He hath never dared to triflewith her,” he said, in tremulous accents.

  “I am much afeard he hath,” answered Don Felix.

  “Go to! I will see her on the matter,” returned Sir Edgar. “Ihave promised her to thee of old, and, if she tender my honour,thou shalt have her. I will write off to Sir Walter to be thysurety to the Government; and directly his answer comes, allowingof thy sojourn here, you shall be wedded. Let us despatch theletter at once.”

  Writing materials were ready at hand, and, as he ceased speaking,Sir Edgar turned to them, and proceeded to write the proposedletter. When it was finished, old Adam Green, whom he employedbefore any in matters of trust, was summoned from without, anddirected to convey it to the next post-town. Adam entered onthe errand without delay; but his retirement from the chamber,preparatory to setting out, afforded Sir Edgar and Don Felix noopportunity of resuming their conversation; for just as he leftthem to themselves, they were joined by Evaline.

  The fair girl, to judge from her appearance, had passed arestless night; but, seeing her father look sad, she smiledon her entry, and greeted him with constrained cheerfulness.To please him, too, she even relaxed her bearing towards DonFelix, and saluted that cavalier with the utmost complaisance.Nevertheless, her assumed composure was but short-lived, and shesat down to their morning meal, which had been waiting for herappearance, in thoughtful silence.

  As none of them was disposed to converse, much less to extendthe appetite, their breakfast sustained no interruption, and wasspeedily despatched. This done, Don Felix arose; and, statingthat he had some business at Exeter, which required his instantattention, quitted the chamber, and left Sir Edgar and Evaline tothemselves.

  They sat full of thought for several minutes, when Sir Edgar, ina low voice, and agitated withal, broke the silence.

  “Evaline, I have some ill tidings for thee,” he said.

  Evaline started. “What may they import, Sir?” she asked, in afaltering tone.

  “’Twill grieve thee to hear, yet must I tell thee,notwithstanding,” answered Sir Edgar. “God give thee grace tobear them meetly!”

  “Amen!” ejaculated Evaline, crossing herself.

  Without saying a word more, she waited till Sir Edgar shouldunfold, at his own prompture, whatever he might have tocommunicate. Though Sir Edgar had before determined what he wouldsay, her patient bearing so moved him, that he now faltered,and several minutes elapsed before he could proceed. At length,however, he opened his communication; and, acquiring morefirmness as he progressed, disclosed to her all that he had justlearned from Don Felix.

  Evaline heard him to an end without interruption. Occasionally,indeed, as the more remarkable features of his tale wereunfolded, she raised her dim eyes, and fixed a momentary glanceon his face; but she never spoke a word. She knew that it wasall true; she would have given her life--ay, her very life--ifshe could even have doubted it; but it carried conviction andreality in every single particular.

  She sat in her chair like a statue--as still, as composed, andalmost as unconscious. One would have thought, from her unruffledlook, that she was indifferent to her father’s tidings--that shewas quite calm and composed; but the calmness and composure weredespair!

  Her father paused when he had finished his communication,expecting, from the hint he had received from Don Felix, thatshe would swoon with grief, or, at the least, burst into tears.Deceived by her seeming composure, however, he supposed that itaffected her only as far as, being so contrary to what she hadlooked for, it shook her opinion of a lately esteemed friend;and, under this impression, he pursued his discourse lesstenderly.

  “Didst thou love this man, Evaline?” he said.

  “Love him?” exclaimed Evaline, wringing her clasped hands. “O!God! how dearly!”

  Sir Edgar turned pale with surprise.

  “Thou shouldst have told me this afore,” he said, reproachingly.

  “He besought me to conceal it for a time,” answered Evaline, “ashe had that in view, he said, which would make his fortune equalmine, and insure him your favour.”

  Sir Edgar bit his lips, and mused a moment. He then stepped up toEvaline’s chair, and, there pausing, took her hand in his.

  “Thou know’st I have thy welfare at heart, my child!” he said.

  “Right well,” replied Evaline, calmly, yet without looking up.

  “And if I ask thee to do a thing I have dreamed of for years, andwhich will make my last days pass lightly, wilt thou cry me nay?”asked Sir Edgar.

  “God forbid, father?” returned Evaline.

  “See, then!” resumed Sir Edgar. “I have long thought to wed theeto thy brave friend and coz, Don Felix.”--Evaline started.--“Thouwilt not, now I am old and lonely, deny me the joy of seeing theehappy?”

  Evaline looked up; and Sir Edgar, though he had observed that hisproposal moved her, was taken by surprise at the despair revealedin her gaze, and shrank back apace.

  “My heart is breaking, father,” she said. “Do not--oh! do notthou pain it more! Beseech thee, as thou lovest me, name not thismatch again!”

  “Never!” exclaimed Sir Edgar, in a broken voice. “’Tis a thing Ihad set my heart on. But never care, my darling! We will speak ofit no more!”

  “Thank you! thank you!” cried Evaline.

  She rose as she spoke, and, withdrawing her small hand from hisclasp, threw her arm round his neck, and kissed his cheek. Then,with a deep sigh, she broke away from him, and passed out of thechamber.

  Sir Edgar watched her till the door, closing after her, hid herfrom his view, when he turned mournfully away, and threw himselfinto the chair which she had just vacated. His expectations, noless than hers, were blighted; his peace also was gone; his andhis child’s sympathies were no longer concordant.

  It is a bitter thing for a parent to find an obstacle to hisheart’s desire in his own child, even when, as in Sir Edgar’scase, he feels that his child’s opposition is perfectly andstrictly legitimate. It is as if his hand, acting on a judgmentof its own, refused to answer the call of his mouth--as if hisbody disdained to be swayed by his mind. Though he may distinctlyperceive and understand, that his child sees in his command anobject of abhorrence, and may mentally bleed at her every pang,he yet feels, in his heart, that she ought to be persuaded thatit is really a path to happiness, and embrace it cheerfully. Hemay know how the idea appals her; he may commiserate and writheunder her deep sufferings; but for all this, he still thinks, inhis moments of retirement, that her terrors are foolish, that hersufferings are the offspring of her own imagination, and thatobedience to him would insure her happiness and fruition.

  Though he had promised never again to request Evaline to acceptthe hand of Don Felix, Sir Edgar found, on reflection, thathe could not tear that project from his heart, or forego itsrealization, without a bitter pang. He had conceived it when theywere yet children; it had, as it were, grown on his affections,as his affections had grown with them; and he now saw a weak andunhappy passion, which could never be pursued, and the mereentertainment of which was degrading, step in to oppose it. Hewas to see his child wither under the breath of a villain, when,as he thought, a career of happiness was open to her, and theheight of earthly bliss was within her reach.

  The last of his house would never wed: when he should be laid inthe cold grave, he would leave in the world, in which all menseek a mem
orial, not a vestige of his race. The inheritance ofa score of ancestors, improved by his care, and extended by hiseconomy, would pass to strangers, and he would die unmourned, andlie in his sepulchre unremembered.

  Such were the bitter reflections that passed through his mind.And yet, in the face of these reflections, at the very momentthat his disappointment pressed upon him most severely--evenwhile he was thinking, every now and then, that the oppositionto his wishes was unkind and unreasonable, his paternal heartbled for his child. He imagined her looking on the wreck of herbright dreams of promise--on lofty hopes overthrown, and deepaspirations stifled; and he saw her, as the ruin still confrontedher, become paralysed at the view, and overwhelmed with theterrors of despair.

  All his own energy was depressed and lost. In his inability tosway his child, he felt as though, in reality, he was no longermaster of himself. His disposition had suddenly undergone anentire and radical change, and he now seemed, instead of being aman of thought and action, to be a mere creature of circumstance,and quite at the command of any influence that might approach him.

  He was still meditating on his disappointment, when he was joinedby Don Felix. That person, finding him alone, inquired the resultof his conversation with Evaline, which he knew had concernedhimself, with affected eagerness, although, if the truth must betold, he very well understood that there was no chance of itsbeing favourable. Sir Edgar’s reply, informing him of Evaline’sdetermination not to wed him, appeared to overwhelm him withaffliction, and, though no more than he had expected, did reallyfill him with the most bitter rage. Still, however, he did notdespair of one day achieving revenge. In deference to Sir Edgar,he forbore to press the subject at that moment, but he lookedforward, in his heart, to a time when he might successfully recurto it, and pursue it to a triumphant issue. Even at the passingtime, indeed, he did not virtually neglect it; but by frequentpiteous sighs, and his melancholy and dejected aspect, whichbeamed with pious resignation, urged his suit on Sir Edgar withunremitted assiduity.

  Meantime, Evaline had shut herself up in her own chamber. Onfirst entering it, she threw herself on her knees, at herbedside; and there, leaning forward, buried her face in herhands. And what did she pray for? Could she suppose, on lookingout on the stupendous creation, which is too vast for humanthought to review, that so insignificant an atom as she couldappeal against and arrest the course of events, and draw fromHeaven miraculous succour? What, though even the hairs of herhead were all numbered--what, though the supreme Disposer, whoplanted and moved every source and spring of action, had calledhimself her Father--what, though he had himself said, “Come untoME, ye heavy-laden,”--was it to be thought, by any sane andreasonable being, that He would recall the past, and obliteraterealized events, on her petition?

  No such thought aroused the prayer of Evaline. She prayed, notagainst what could not be averted, but for power to bear what Godshould dispense--not for the reduction of her burden, but forgrace and strength to sustain it.

  She was somewhat soothed when she arose from her knees. But theholy assurance which she derived from her prayer, though itnerved her for the moment, was not lasting, and quickly sankunder her associations with the world. In time, she might beresigned--_that_ was her hope; but now--O God! who could bear itnow?

  If she did for a moment conjure up an assuasive reflection, thebitterness of blighted passion--as if, like a stranded sea, ithad receded only to recruit its vigour--quickly rushed over heragain, and bore down all opposition. What an afflictive andappalling spectacle did it present to her! Every hope washedaway--every bright thought overthrown--every dream and prospectof happiness utterly obliterated!

  And did she bear no animosity to the man who, whether directlyor otherwise, she supposed to have brought her to this dreadfulpass? Not so much as would weigh in the scale with a hair! Sheloved him, indeed, as dearly as ever--loved him beyond the graspof expression--loved him with all the ardour, depth, and devotionof her nature.

  If she could only weep--if she could only soothe her overchargedheart, in its bitter ecstacy, with a few tears--then, shethought, her misery would be assuaged. But her distress was soexquisite, that even this relief, wretched as it was, would notrise at her wish, and she had not so much as a tear to consoleher.

  She thought herself perfectly resigned, but, paradoxical as itmay sound, she was, in reality, nerved by despair. Beyond thepallor of her complexion, and the fixed stare of her eyes, sheshowed no outward sign of emotion; but within, where no eye couldobserve her, she was wrung to the soul. And what a glorious thingit was, now all was gone, to be able to brood over her sorrowunobserved! How grateful was it to her to be alone!--to sitand think, hour by hour, over her heart-rooted affliction, hercrushed affections, and her indomitable but fatal attachment!

  Several hours elapsed before she ventured to return to the familysitting-room. Ultimately, however, she did repair thither, andthere joined Sir Edgar and Don Felix.

  Sorrow had breathed a blight over the once happy circle; and thesweet harmonies of family intercourse, if looked for in outwardevidences, were visible no more. When they spoke at all, thefather and daughter spoke in monosyllables; and Don Felix, thoughreally no way disturbed, did little else but sigh. But whatmost distressed Evaline was, not the silence, but the seemingprostration of her father. Nor was it in his face, dejected as itwas, or in the tones of his voice, that she conceived this to beapparent. It was in his excessive tenderness to her that she sawhis affliction. He seemed to be afraid to speak, or even to move,without first looking at her, as if he imagined it possiblethat his words or motion might give her uneasiness. In short,he appeared to be so subdued, that he had resigned all care forhimself, and had no thought that was not entirely hers.

  She hoped this would wear off, and that a day or two, atfurthest, would bring him more fortitude. But the habit rathergrew upon him; and day followed day, in tedious succession, andwith the same melancholy monotony, without altering his manner inthe least.

  His evident wretchedness materially aggravated the depressionof Evaline. Though her own cause of sorrow, contrary to herexpectations, was none the less bitter or poignant from beingfamiliar, it did become less absorbing, and gradually left heropen to other and more tender impressions. In the severanceof one tie, she felt those that remained, and which embracedher earlier affections, drawn yet closer, and her survivingattachments become more enlarged and endearing. To her father, inparticular, her heart opened new and more devoted sympathies. Hewas now to be her sole care--in him was rooted her only remaininghope; and to soothe the downhill of his life, which her sorrowshad rendered rugged, was to be her one solitary aim.

  In what way was her holy object to be accomplished? Her heart,already so prostrate, fairly ran cold at the inquiry. But ifshe recoiled from it at first, she soon began to think of it,in her solitary moments, with more calmness. Occasionally,when she thought no eye was observing her, she would steal aglance at her father’s face, and, as she there saw what he wassuffering within, she would accuse herself of disobedience, andeven of selfishness. Then she would reflect, with something likepleasure, that she could not live long; and, if she soothed thelast days of her father, what could it matter how she sacrificedherself? Don Felix, it was true, could never possess her love;but his present devotion to her father had restored him to heresteem; and if it would give happiness to the latter, whom shehad made unhappy, why should she hesitate to wed him? It would beall the same to her; she could not be more wretched than she was;and when the hour should come which would lead her to anothersphere, where the very fulness of peace would be opened to her,she would be haunted by no remembrance of disobedience, or shadowof reproach.

  But though her heart could pause on such a reflection, it wastoo weak and human, and attached too closely to the memoriesand associations of the past, to approach it with resolution.She pondered on it, indeed, very frequently; but never long,and always with some degree of horror. One afternoon, however,it occurred to her so forcibly, that, strive as she might, shepo
sitively could not repel it. She was seated in the common room,and its only other inmate, it so happened, was her father. He satwith his side towards her; but his head, contrary to his wont,was resting on his open hand, and, though she repeatedly turnedher glance upon him, she could not see his face. After a time,she began to think he was asleep; and something prompted her,now she could not be observed, to approach him, and take a closesurvey of his features.

  Light as her step was, Sir Edgar heard her approaching, andlooked up. For the first time since the morning following thereturn of Don Felix, her eyes met his, and she observed, at herfirst glance, that they were filled with tears.

  She had paused when he raised his eyes; but now, banishing herhesitation, she sprang hastily forward, and threw herself at hisfeet.

  “Father!” she said, in a deep voice; and, as she spoke, sheplanted her arms on his knees, and caught his right hand in bothhers:--“Thou think’st I love thee not!”

  Sir Edgar’s eyes overflowed. “My child! my darling! not love me!”he cried. “Oh, I know thou dost! I know thou dost!”

  “I have been self-willed, dear,” answered Evaline. “Wilt thouforgive me?”

  Sir Edgar, bending a little forward, threw his arm round herneck, and pressed his lips to her cheek.

  “Shall I forgive thee for being my comforter?” he said. “Thouhast ever been my true darling, and most loving child! What can Iforgive thee more?”

  “I have denied thee to wed Don Felix,” pursued Evaline. “In goodsooth, my heart was then distract, but I will deny it thee nolonger. Thou shalt give me to him, father.”

  “Our Lady forbid, my poor child!” faltered Sir Edgar.

  “Thou shalt! thou shalt!” cried Evaline, trying to smile. “What,wouldst turn on me with mine own waywardness, and cross me forbeing undutiful?”

  Perhaps, Sir Edgar saw, in spite of her smile, which was reallymore distressing than tears, how biting a sorrow was wringingher tortured heart, and so determined to yield to whatever sheshould propose. Whatever might be the motive that influenced him,however, he caught her round the waist as she ceased speaking,and, thus holding her, drew her up to his bosom.

  “Be it as thou wilt!” he said, in a broken voice.

  “First, I will write to Captain Clifford,” resumed Evaline, “andadvise him, with what brevity I can, what he is charged withal.This were no more than common justice.”

  “No more,” said Sir Edgar. “But where wilt thou write to him,dear?”

  “To the lodging of Sir Walter Raleigh,” answered Evaline.

  “I had a missive from Sir Walter this morning,” said Sir Edgar,“enclosing a pass for Felix, but he makes no mention, in the fewwords he hath writ, of Captain Clifford.”

  “No doubt, they be both much occupied with the new levies,preparing against the armada,” observed Evaline. “I willadvertise him, if he do not clear himself of the charges in tendays’ time, he shall never see me more. When that space haspassed, I will hold myself free from him, and be ready to wedFelix.”

  “’Tis resolved like thyself, and let it be so,” replied SirEdgar. “The letter should be despatched to him with all speed.”

  “I will write it incontinently,” returned Evaline.

  Accordingly, she repaired to the contiguous table, and there,sitting down, entered on the task forthwith. Her despair, insteadof distracting her, marshalled her thoughts into order; her handwas as steady as marble; and, writing straight on, she shortlybrought her letter to a close. When she had thus finished it,she carefully read it over; and then, though without speaking,offered it for the perusal of Sir Edgar.

  “I cannot read it,” cried Sir Edgar. “Seal it up!”

  She felt inclined to read it over again as she drew it back; butfearful that, as he had observed her read it over once, Sir Edgarmight deem her irresolute, she forbore, and hastily sealed it up.Then, with a hand much less steady, she superscribed it, and gaveit over to Sir Edgar.

  “Art resolved on this, Evaline?” asked that person, as heaccepted the letter.

  She could not trust herself to speak; for the effort she hadmade to appear composed, and by which she had been sustained solong, was now spent, and her heart was bursting. By a desperatestruggle, however, she forced her lips into a smile, and noddedaffirmatively.

  “I will despatch the missive at once, then,” said Sir Edgar.

  Thus speaking, he strode out of the chamber, and proceeded inquest of Adam Green. He soon found that individual, and, callinghim aside, presented him the letter, and directed him to conveyit to the Devon postman. He then turned to rejoin Evaline.

  The forlorn girl had quitted the chamber before he arrivedthither. He was not sorry, on reflection, that it had sohappened, as he thought that she would be the better for retiringa while. He was himself quite elevated; for he supposed that, ona dispassionate review of what had transpired, she had masteredher unhappy passion for Hildebrand, and was really desirous towed Don Felix. As he was pondering on this gratifying conclusion,Don Felix joined him.

  Sir Edgar grasped his hand on his entry, and at once unfoldedto him, word for word, all that had passed between him andEvaline. The subtle Spaniard appeared to be overjoyed at thecommunication. On pursuing the subject further, however, heexpressed a doubt whether, in case no other obstacle shouldintervene, they could find a priest to solemnize the contemplatedmarriage.

  “There are licensed priests enow, did we know where to look forthem,” answered Sir Edgar.

  “That I am well advised of,” resumed Don Felix; “and, now Ibethink me, one came over with me from France, and is stillsomewhere in Exeter.”

  “He may be a seminary priest,” suggested Sir Edgar.

  “That is he not, but duly licensed,” returned Don Felix. “I willinquire him out anon.”

  While he was thus discussing the last preliminary of the proposedmarriage, Evaline, who was to be its victim, was broodingover it in her chamber. Strange as it may seem, the evidenceof Hildebrand’s inconstancy, whether from familiarity, or frombeing reviewed with a too partial eye, now appeared to her tobe defective, and she began to hope that he would be able toprove it false. It is true, her hope, if viewed closely, wasassociated with a thousand fears, but still it was a hope. Sheknew that he had introduced to her acquaintance, under the nameof Don Rafaele, a person of exceeding beauty, and whom onlythe most skilful disguise could make to pass for a male, andshe recollected many particulars in the conduct of that personthat quite confirmed the statement advanced by Don Felix. Butwould Hildebrand have brought his wretched victim into thepresence of one whose ruin he only meditated? She thought not;and though harassed, every now and then, with the most bitterand excruciating apprehensions, and occasionally horrified atthe thought of the sacrifice she had proposed to her father, shestill hoped for a satisfactory and happy issue.

  The hope, limited as it was, inspired her with new spirits,and, compared with her previous bearing, she was quite animatedwhen she rejoined her father. Sir Edgar was overjoyed, and, toall appearance, Don Felix was no less so; and they both strovetheir utmost, by engaging her constantly in conversation, tomaintain her in the equanimity she seemed to enjoy. For a week,or so, while her hope retained its ascendency, their efforts weresuccessful; but as the time drew nigh at which, according to theperiod she had fixed, she might expect a reply to her letterto Hildebrand, her spirits drooped, and she again sank intolistlessness and apathy.

  The mental fever that she now endured was beyond expressionexcruciating. It would have been far better for her to bewithout hope, than to hang, hour by hour, and minute by minute,by such a pitiful thread, and look down on all the horrors ofdespair. What poignant thoughts struck her every minute! Now shewould be comparatively composed, and then, quick as lightning, afear would spring from her heart, that would make her brow sweatagain. What fearful agony was that! Yet it was nothing, in forceand horror, compared with what she endured at night. Then, whenevery other eye was sealed in sleep, she lay on her troubledpillow in a raging fever--restle
ss, racked, and burning. Evenwhen exhausted nature sank her into a brief sleep, she writhedunder horrible dreams, and was soon, in spite of her exhaustion,startled into action by a monstrous nightmare.

  Yet all this time, under all this suffering, she bent her kneedaily, in humble adoration, before the inscrutable providenceof her Maker; she never once questioned the equity of Hisdispensations; she only asked for mercy, patience, and fortitudeto bear them meetly.

  Never a breath of complaint once escaped her. She even tried tolook cheerful; to exhilarate her father, she would even smile,when, God knows, her noble heart was bursting.

  At length the day arrived which was to decide her fortune. Whata day! Every approaching step, if she did not recognise itdirectly, made her start. Once, looking out of the casement, onthe side of the mansion nearest the lodge, she espied a horsemancoming up the avenue. What a host of hopes and fears rose inher bosom, during the few minutes that, from the time she firstsaw him, the horseman was occupied in riding to the house! BothSir Edgar and Don Felix were in the room; but though she feltassured, from the very outset, that the horseman was a messengerfrom Hildebrand, she was afraid to call their attention to hisappearance, lest they should perceive her agitation. She wasstill looking out of the casement, when, with a beating heart,she heard old Adam enter the chamber, and approach Don Felix.The next moment, the voice of Don Felix, whispering her father,brought all her bright and inspiriting speculations to the ground.

  “It is the priest,” he said.

  Sir Edgar started up at this announcement; and, together with DonFelix, and Adam, who was waiting their commands in the matter,passed out of the chamber. As she heard them make their egress,Evaline, now perfectly hopeless, drew back from the casement,and ventured to turn round. She stood still a moment, as ifher despair had deprived her of motion; and then, with franticenergy, rushed through the open doorway, and repaired to her ownchamber.

  There she remained for several hours, alone and undisturbed. Atlast, when it had become quite dark, she was joined by Martha,who came to assist her to bed. Just as she had effected thatobject, a slight knock, yet evidently proceeding from an unsteadyhand, was inflicted on the chamber-door.

  “’Tis my father,” cried Evaline. “Prithee advertise him, goodMartha, I am marvellous weary now, and would be alone; but I willbe well prepared to-morrow.”

  Martha hastened to the door, and, drawing it open, perceived thattheir visiter, as Evaline had foretold, was indeed Sir Edgar.Holding the door in her hand, she informed him, in a low tone,what Evaline had said, and desired to know his commands.

  “’Tis well,” answered Sir Edgar. “Inquire at what hour to-morrowshe will be prepared.”

  “At nine of the clock, father!” replied Evaline, distinguishingwhat he said. “Till then, God and our Lady have thee in ward!”

  “And thee! and thee!” cried Sir Edgar. “We will attend thee inthe morning.”

  And on the following morning, precisely at nine o’clock, theappointed hour, he and Don Felix were in attendance at herchamber-door. They were not kept waiting long. Shortly afterthey had taken their station, the door was opened, and Evaline,supported by Martha, appeared in the doorway. She was attired inher most costly habits; but their splendour, on being surveyedclosely, sorted ill with her pallid complexion, and her inflamedand swollen eyes. Still she had constrained herself to looksomewhat animated. She even smiled as she greeted her father, andreadily accepted the support which, on her coming fairly into thepassage, was proffered to her by Don Felix.

  Leaning on the arm of that person, and followed by Sir Edgarand Martha, she passed on to the chapel, which was on the floorbeneath. But her resolution began to waver as she entered thechapel. Don Felix, though she still held his arm, paused at thechapel-door, and suffered Sir Edgar and Martha to pass on beforethem. He then secured the door.

  Wretched and horrified as she had been all along, Evaline nowfelt, in the severance of the last association with hope, a newand more terrible anguish, and the full wretchedness of hersituation seemed to reveal itself only at this moment. But shehad no time for reflection. The priest, who had entered thechapel before them, was waiting her at the altar; her fatherbegan to look pale and anxious; and Don Felix, though with moregentleness than his wont, led her trembling forward.

  She stood at the altar quite unconscious of the awful rite thatwas in progress: she did not hear a word--she did not see a thingthat was passing: her whole sense and energy--her very principleof life, were bound in the torpor of despair.

  The priest took up her hand. The fearful horror and utterhopelessness of her situation, to which she had for a momentappeared insensible, now burst upon her again. Her heart seemedto leap to her mouth, and to force her, in spite of herself, tosay aloud--“O, God! hast thou forsaken me?”

  The words had hardly escaped her, when a loud and prolongedknocking, that made the building ring, was inflicted on thechapel-door.

  “’Tis he! ’tis he!” screamed Evaline.

  So speaking, she broke away from the priest, and darted towardsthe chapel-door. Before she could reach it, however, Sir Edgar,who was scarcely less agitated than she was, sprang after her,and arrived at the door first.

  “Who knocks?” he demanded.

  “In the name of our sovereign lady the Queen, open the door,” wasthe reply.

  The voice was Bernard Gray’s.