CHAPTER IV.

HILDEBRAND.

NEW WORK, BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

_Preparing for Publication, in 3 vols. 8vo._,

THE OLD TEMPLE:

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF “HILDEBRAND,”

_&c. &c._

“Within the Temple hall we were too loud,

The garden here is more convenient.”

SHAKSPEARE.

LONDON:

JOHN MORTIMER, ADELAIDE STREET,

TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

HILDEBRAND:

OR,

THE DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF “THE KING’S SON.”

Frugal and wise, a Walsingham is thine;

A Drake, who made thee mistress of the sea,

And bore thy name in thunder round the world.

Then flamed thy spirit high; but who can speak

The numerous worthies of the maiden reign?

In Raleigh mark their every glory mix’d;

Raleigh, the scourge of Spain! THOMSON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

JOHN MORTIMER, ADELAIDE STREET,

TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

MDCCCXLIV.

LONDON: PRINTED BY HENRY RICHARDS,

BRYDGES-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

HILDEBRAND;

_&c. &c._

CHAPTER I.

The last rays of a July sun were extending themselves over the

western sky, and that sweetest period of a summer’s day--the cool

evening--had just opened, when a horseman made his appearance on

the high-road between Exeter and London, in the midland section

of Devonshire. He looked a young man; and his years were not so

many even, as one would, at first sight, have inferred from his

looks. Care and travel, and probably privation, had given a stamp

of experience to his features, and an air of reflection to his

face, that savoured more of a man of thirty, than one of four

or five and twenty years, which was more likely his age. Yet, to

judge from his appearance, he was not one of those who would let

the cares of life press upon him heavily, or of a constitution

that, from any imperfectness or defect, would suffer greatly

under the infliction of privation or hardship. His countenance

was almost an oval, and sorted well with his light-brown beard

and moustache, which, though they were no way scanty, he wore

thin and pointed. His complexion was of that red and white which,

in men, is so peculiarly English, and would have been fair to

effeminacy, only that it bore evidence of having been exposed,

no very long time previous, to a more glowing sun than that of

England, which had given it a more manly tone, and rendered its

beauty more lively and animated. His blue eyes were not large,

but they were finely coloured and penetrating, and harmonized

well with his fair forehead, which, though not lofty, was

unruffled and expansive. His other features were turned with

accuracy, and the tone of each was such as, in most instances,

marks a sanguine temperament and a generous disposition.

Nevertheless, the _ensemble_ of his face was not without a touch

of melancholy, though it was probably more the indication and

effect of a pensive turn of mind, nursed by vicissitude, or kept

in constant exercise by his daily avocations, than the vestige

of any past sorrow or present care. Indeed, in the life and

animation of every feature, this small trace of gloom beneath

the eyes, though it was ever present, was almost lost; and there

was no point in his face but manifested, in a greater or a less

degree, the spirit of frankness, buoyancy, and good-nature.

The horseman was of a tall person, which was the more in his

favour as, from early exercise, the muscles of his fine broad

chest were fully developed, and all his well-turned limbs

denoted unity and power. He was attired in grave habits, cut

in the fashion of the age, which was that of Elizabeth; yet

his erect and soldier-like bearing, more conspicuous from

his being mounted, betokened that he had not always worn the

garments of peace, but had at some time followed the noble

profession of arms. A long basket-hilted sword, of the kind

called cut-and-thrust, hung at his left side; and a small valise

(seemingly made to hold a change of raiment, and probably the

appurtenances of his toilet), which was fastened to the back of

his saddle, completed his equipment.

He sat his horse with much grace, and with that union of ease and

dignity, joined to flexity of limb, which denoted no less the

perfect horseman, than the true and polished gentleman.

A slight breeze had risen with the evening, and as he had

probably ridden some distance, and the day had been warm, the

horseman rode along at a gentle pace, in order that he might

enjoy more fully, and with greater ease, the fresh free air that

played around him. As he passed along, his eye glanced wistfully

over the country on either side, seeming to take in, every now

and then, some well-known and agreeable object, that called

a brighter lustre to his eye, and often a smile to his lip.

Occasionally the notes of a blackbird, or some other feathered

songster, would draw his attention to the bush that bordered the

road, and which was now adorned with many a wreath of the wild

dog-rose, and the varied greens of the hawthorn and blackberry.

Then his feelings, responding to the cheering melody, would

manifest a new and more sensible buoyancy, and spread over his

manly face a glow of earnest pleasure.

Thus he rode leisurely along, when, as he approached a

secluded-looking by-road, his ear was saluted by the report

of a pistol, followed by a shrill scream; and this incident

induced him to bring his horse to a stand. But after a moment’s

hesitation he pushed forward again, and, clapping spurs to his

horse, passed at a smart pace down the contiguous by-road, whence

the sounds that had alarmed him seemed to have emanated.

The road was, like all the cross-roads of the period, narrow and

rugged, and in many parts overgrown with grass, or traversed by

deep ruts, that rendered any kind of progress a matter of labour

and difficulty. It was bounded on either side by the fence of

the neighbouring fields--the common quickset, or field-hedge,

which now had attained its full growth, and displayed all the

luxuriance of maturity. Behind the hedge ran a row of elms, in

irregular rank, and at no certain or fixed intervals, the boughs

of which overhung the road, and frequently met about its centre.

Indeed, the road was not unlike the avenue to a gentleman’s

house, only that its extreme ruggedness, joined to the fence

of quickset aforementioned, and its occasional patches of

vegetation, somewhat impaired the similarity, and were features

that such a locality could not be expected to exhibit.

At length our horseman came to an angle in the road, about a

quarter of a mile from the highway, which, turning sharply

round, opened to view a scene that inspired him with the deepest

interest.

A few yards in his front stood one of the heavy carriages of

the period, with its broad side-doors forced open, and its four

horses brought to an abrupt halt. On the ground, at the side of

the road, bleeding profusely from a cut on the forehead, lay a

groaning postilion, who appeared to be on the eve of a longer

journey than he had probably looked for. The corpse of another

man-servant was stretched on the opposite side of the road,

and his unsheathed rapier showed that, like the postilion, he

had fallen unresisting. Startling as these particulars were,

they hardly obtained from our horseman, after he had quite

turned the angle, the ordinary notice of a glance. A group of

five persons on the left of the arrested carriage immediately

engaged his whole attention. Two of these were, to judge from

their appearance, cavaliers of the road, or, in other words,

highwaymen, and had probably just dismounted from two stout

steeds hard by, which were quietly cropping the grass, or

waste land, at the side of the road. A third was an elderly

personage--perhaps (for his appearance bespoke him a man of rank)

the proprietor of the adjacent carriage--who was combating the

taller of these ruffians with his rapier. In this contest he was

assisted by another person, apparently one of his domestics;

but they were but indifferent swordsmen, and were hardly able

to defend themselves, much less act offensively, against the

experienced arm of the robber. This seemed to be clear to the

accomplice of the latter; for, instead of affording him any

succour, he was entirely engaged with the fifth, and, in the eyes

of our horseman, most interesting person of the party--a young

and beautiful female. His superior strength had already rendered

her almost powerless, when he thrust his hand under the collar of

her bodice, in search of some trinket, or, perhaps--for it was

out of sight--some more precious valuable, which was suspended

by a chain of gold from her neck. This outrage, exceeding any

that she had hitherto sustained, drew from the unhappy lady

a cry of utter terror, and nerved her for one last effort to

break from his hold. She was still struggling, when the sound

of a horse’s feet broke on her ear, and, casting a despairing

glance around, her eye fell on our young horseman, who, having

turned the angle, had just come fully into view. Her strength

was by this time exhausted: she saw that deliverance, which had

appeared hopeless, was close at hand; and she sank senseless in

her assailant’s arms.

The ruffian had not a moment to lose; for the horseman, he

perceived at a glance, was no ordinary wayfarer, and he was

approaching at a full gallop. Throwing down the insensible form

of the lady, he seemed to deliberate, under the first effects of

the surprise, how he should meet him. His hesitation, however,

was but momentary; for, as the horseman drew nearer, he snatched

a pistol from his girdle, and discharged it at his breast. But

the ball struck the horseman in the fleshy part of his left arm,

and did not, according to his expectations, bring him to a halt.

Seeing him still advance, the robber sought to meet his assault

with his raised rapier; but whether it was that he had expected

it would be less vigorous, and so was unprepared, or that he

was an inexpert swordsman, his precaution was of no avail. The

horseman beat down his guard directly; and with a terrific

lounge, for which his long cut-and-thrust sword was excellently

adapted, ran him through the body, pinning him to the pannel of

the carriage at his back.

It will readily be imagined that this new incident did not

transpire without attracting the attention of those other

characters in the passing scene whom it so eminently affected.

The report of the pistol was the first intimation they had of

the horseman’s advent; and it was then that the senior cavalier,

turning from the contest he was engaged in, perceived the

melancholy situation of the young lady. This seemed to throw

him off his guard; for, regardless of his position, he broke

away from the conflict with the robber, and sprang to the

lady’s assistance. His servant was very unequal to the conflict

single-handed; and the robber, seeing the fate of his comrade,

and probably conceiving that no effort he could make would alter

the fortune of the day, availed himself of this circumstance to

retreat towards his steed, keeping the servant at bay, meanwhile,

though seemingly with a desire to do him no hurt.

At last he reached his horse, and with a dexterous lounge,

he knocked his rapier out of the servant’s hand, and sprang

unmolested to his saddle. As he gained his seat, he clapped spurs

to his horse, and galloped off.

Our young horseman was at this moment withdrawing his sword from

the body of the fugitive’s comrade. Hearing the clatter of the

retreating horse, he turned round; but though the robber had only

a slight start of him, and was no better armed than himself, he

showed no disposition to give him chase. Seemingly satisfied with

having driven him off, he proceeded to tender his assistance, in

another character, to the still helpless lady.

The lady was reclining in the arms of the elderly individual

before noticed. She was, as has been remarked, still insensible;

but if her position was calculated to obscure and veil over

the attributes of her mind, it was well adapted to display the

exquisite graces of her person. Though she could hardly have

arrived at her eighteenth summer, she had evidently attained

her full height, and was progressing towards that development

of _contour_, or general outline, which is the most glorious

indication of female maturity. But it was more in promise--more

in those shadowy lines which were yet hardly revealed, but which

were still replete with grace and excellence--that the beauty of

her person chiefly consisted. The hundred dazzling charms that

marked the mould and perfectness of her limbs, though distinctly

visible, were not of that character which can be defined; and

they existed more as a whole than individually, and with a

seeming hold and dependence on each other. There was, however,

little of buoyancy in her most engaging countenance. Whether it

was the effect of her swoon, or of some deeper cause, rooted in

the past, her features wore a stamp of gravity beyond her years,

but which might arise from a habit of reflection, as much as from

any spring of disappointment or sorrow. Her complexion was dark,

yet so beautifully shaded, that it seemed to comprehend a variety

of tints, blended into one inseparable and harmonious whole; and

this gave it a force of expression, and a sweetness of tone,

truly charming. Her raven-black hair, disarranged by her recent

struggle, had burst the restraints imposed upon it by her toilet,

and fell loosely over her fair cheeks and neck, as if it sought,

by this close and striking proximity, to be compared with the

whiteness of her heaving bosom.

The personage who supported her was, as was heretofore

observed, considerably her senior. He was tall in stature, and,

notwithstanding a slight stoop in his shoulders--probably the

bend of age--dignified in his bearing. His countenance had once

been handsome, and was still noble; and though there was an air

of sternness, approaching to austerity, about his forehead, the

general expression of his features was gentle and kindly. As

he gazed in the lady’s face, he betrayed the deepest emotion,

and appeared, on a cursory glance, to have no sense of what was

passing around, but to be engrossed solely by his fears for the

unconscious being whom he supported. He was yet bending over her,

anxiously watching for the first return of sensibility, when the

cavalier by whom they had been so effectually succoured, having

dismounted from his horse, and given it over to the care of the

servant, came up with him.

“Hath the lady sustained any hurt, Sir?” he inquired.

At this moment the young lady, as if aroused by his voice, opened

her eyes, and looked up.

“Is it thou, father?” she said, addressing the personage who

supported her. “Thou art not hurt, then?”

“Not in the least, my dear child,” replied her father.

“And are we free?” said the young lady, eagerly looking round.

“Quite, quite,” answered the old man; “and, under Heaven, we owe

our deliverance to this gentleman.”

“We owe him a great debt, then,” said the lady, raising herself

up. “I hope, Sir,” she added, speaking to the cavalier alluded

to, “we may live long enough to show, by our future actions, that

we shall ever remember it.”

As she gained an erect position, she drew off her glove, and

offered the cavalier her small hand. He seized it eagerly, and

with a gentle inclination of his head, suitable to the occasion,

raised it to his lips.

“’Twere but a poor compliment, Sir,” observed the elderly

cavalier, following up what had been said by his daughter, “to

say thou hast my hearty thanks. Thou hast given me more than

life; and what is there in its gift, much less in an old man’s

voice, that can balance such service as this?”

“I’faith, fair Sir, thou ratest my help too high,” replied the

person addressed. “’Twas no more than any other honest stranger

would have lent thee.”

“’Tis very few would risk life and limb for absolute strangers,

brave Sir,” rejoined the previous speaker. “But we may be less

strangers, if it so please thee, in time to come.”

“If that be thy mind, fair Sir,” said the other, “it will be a

right welcome thing to me, though my stay in this land will not

be for long.”

“Thou art not a foreigner?” said the elderly cavalier, in a tone

of half inquiry, half doubt. “But I should tell thee who I am.

My name is Sir Edgar de Neville; and this fair lady, to whom thou

hast given more than her life, is my only child.”

If Sir Edgar furnished this information with the view of

ascertaining the name and rank of his deliverer, preparatory to

entering more fully on those friendly relations which he had

just opened, and had invited him to extend, the result must have

disappointed him; for the cavalier, whatever was his motive, did

not disclose these particulars, but rather answered him evasively.

“Mine is a happy fortune,” he said, “that hath won two such

friends. But this fair lady hath need of repose, Sir Edgar. I

have some small matters to settle at the village of Lantwell; and

will be your escort, if you will give me leave, as far as your

lodge, which I can make to fall in my way.”

“Thou knowest Neville Grange, then, Sir?” inquired Sir Edgar.

“’Tis many years since I was in this part afore,” said the

cavalier, slightly colouring; “but I once knew it right well.”

“We will not claim thine escort only, then,” returned Sir Edgar;

“but, while thine affairs hold thee at Lantwell, thy fair company

also, an’ thou wilt give us leave.”

As the cavalier was about to reply, he caught a glance from

the dark eyes of Miss de Neville, seeming, by the warmth and

kindliness of its expression, to second the invitation of her

father; and, repressing the answer which he had been about to

make, and which was probably of a negative character, he replied

with a bow of acquiescence.

Preparations were therefore made for entering once more on their

journey. The wounded postilion, who, it was now discovered, was

but slightly hurt, had his forehead bound up, and was then able

to mount his horse, and resume the duties of his post. The dead

servant, with the corpse of the robber, was drawn to one side of

the road, and there left till, on Sir Edgar’s arrival home, a

suitable means of removing them could be procured. Sir Edgar and

his fair daughter took their places in the carriage; and their

deliverer, and the old servant, who was entirely unhurt, mounted

their horses, and rode slowly along on either side of that

vehicle.

While the party thus pursued their way, each individual was too

busily occupied by his thoughts to seek to open a conversation.

Indeed, the young cavalier, however his thoughts might have

been engaged, was more seriously unfitted for the amenities of

discourse. In the excitement of the rescue, the pistol-wound he

had received in his arm, at his first appearance on the scene

of action, had not been heeded; but now that he had ceased to

be physically employed, and was, to a certain extent, left to

himself, its violent throbs became most painfully sensible. The

hœmorrhage appeared to be slight; for his murrey-coloured jerkin,

except round the hole where the ball had entered, was hardly

soiled; yet he could feel the ball burning in the middle of his

arm. He tied his scarf tightly over it, thinking that, by its

pressure on the part affected, this would mitigate the dreadful

throes by which it was every moment convulsed. But the angry

wound throbbed as before, and the blood in his arm, from his

shoulder downward, seemed to rage and boil, and, as it gurgled

round the wound, to burn like liquid fire.

In this manner he rode along for about two miles, continually

hoping, at every successive wind in the apparently interminable

lane, to come up with some farm-house, or peasant’s cottage,

where he could procure a drink of water. But no prospect of

relief presented itself, and he was about to avow his utter

inability to proceed, when, looking round, he perceived that the

road was approaching a gate, with a porter’s lodge just visible

over the fence, which he recalled to mind as the entrance to

Neville Grange. The carriage came to a halt the next moment; and

the mounted servant, who had been riding on the inner side of

the carriage, nearest to the gate, spurred forward a few paces,

and rang the lodge-bell. The young cavalier felt a dizziness come

over him at this juncture; and drawing his horse up, within a

pace or two of the carriage, he staggered in his saddle, and fell

back against the carriage-door.

CHAPTER II.

The estate called Neville Grange, the residence of Sir Edgar de

Neville, embraced an extensive park, and a roomy and commodious

mansion. This latter was evidently a recent erection, and

had probably succeeded, since the accession of the present

proprietor, to one of some antiquity. It was an unpretending

structure, but was rendered important by its size, which,

with its situation, marked it as the residence of a person

of consequence. Its date was as clearly indicated by its

material--the red brick then in use--as by its style, which was

of that substantial yet stately caste called Elizabethan. It

stood on the summit of a gentle acclivity, with its rear and

sides, the least finished parts of the building, enclosed by

umbrageous trees, and the front commanding a view of the whole

extent of the park.

Sir Edgar de Neville, the present proprietor, had become

possessed of the Grange on the death of his father, towards

the latter end of the reign of Mary. He had previously, while

attending on the king-consort, Philip, in Spain, married a

Spanish lady, who brought him little dower but her beauty, and,

what he prized as highly, her affections. Even these possessions

he was not destined to enjoy long; for shortly after his

accession to the family estate, his lady died, leaving behind her

an infant daughter, a sad memento, in the promise furnished by

her scarcely dawning charms, of her own excellence and beauty.

About this time Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne; and Sir

Edgar, being a Roman Catholic, and opposed to the new order of

things, which disqualified Roman Catholics for any state office

or employment, was obliged to relinquish his public pursuits,

and retire into the contracted circle of private life. But this

change of fortune did not shake his allegiance, or induce him

to lend any countenance, however limited, to those treasonable

conspiracies which the oppressive enactments of the new

legislature occasionally excited among the Roman Catholics. So

unexceptionable was his conduct, that none of the host of spies

which the jealousy of Burleigh, the Lord-Treasurer, and chief

minister of Elizabeth, maintained in every part of the country,

had ever been able to discover therein the slightest cause for

mistrust or suspicion. In his excessive caution, he even denied

himself the full exercise of his religion; and many a year passed

by, subsequent to the accession of Elizabeth to the throne,

without seeing his threshold once marked with the forbidden step

of a priest.

Thus he lived secluded for a considerable period; but ultimately,

after a lapse of some years, he was joined in his retirement by

a Spanish gentleman, named Don Felix di Corva, to whom he was

related, through his deceased wife, in the degree of cousin.

With this gentleman and his daughter, the fair Evaline, he was

residing at the epoch which opens this history.

These particulars were yet unknown to the cavalier who, at great

risk to himself, had just rendered Sir Edgar such signal service,

and whom the conclusion of our last chapter represented to have

fallen in a swoon. On recovering his senses, he found himself

disposed in a comfortable bed, in an upper chamber of Sir Edgar’s

mansion. A skilful chirurgeon, whose residence was hard by, and

whom a mounted servant had brought express to the mansion, stood

by his bedside, and Sir Edgar himself was watching anxiously for

his recovery. Directly this took place, the chirurgeon, with the

promptitude of an alert practitioner, examined the wound in his

arm, and, with little difficulty, succeeded in drawing forth the

bullet. That effected, he carefully dressed the wound, and the

cavalier, at his suggestion, was then left to repose.

The pain of the wound, yielding to the soothing influence of the

dressing, which met the heated blood with a refreshing coolness,

had materially abated, but still the cavalier could not dispose

himself to sleep. Relieved from bodily pain, his mind, which

physical suffering had hitherto kept in subjection, began to

bestir itself, and led him into such a conflict of thought, as

amounted, in the end, almost to distraction. Hour succeeded hour,

and yet his eyes, in spite of his utmost efforts to obtain rest,

remained unsealed, and his senses alive to the finest perception.

Thoughts arose unbidden, and almost against his will, from the

deepest recesses of his heart, with recollections of the past,

and fears of the future, in which he had to play a most perilous

part, all mingled together. Yet this state of mind, if bodily

suffering was not its actual source, did spring partly from his

wound, and the peculiar excitement attending its infliction,

though it was mainly caused by an untimely contemplation of his

personal prospects. The same object continued to engage his

attention, in every variety of shape, and under every possible

aspect, till he was overtaken by exhaustion, and then--and not

till then--did he fall asleep.

It was yet early in the morning when he awoke. He was surprised

to find, on becoming completely awake, that his wound now gave

him no pain; and he was able to rise without inconvenience. A

small handbell, which stood on a chair beside his bed, brought an

aged domestic to his chamber, and, with the assistance of this

individual, he entered on his toilet, and was soon fully attired.

Learning that neither Sir Edgar nor his daughter had yet risen,

he left word with the servant, for their information, that he

should take a stroll in the park, and return to meet them at the

breakfast-table. With this intimation, he descended to the hall,

and thence, finding the hall-door open, passed into the park.

As he gazed inquisitively round, his eye fell on a walk that,

from its being hedged in by tall shrubs, wore a more secluded

look than the others; and, whether for this reason, or because it

was the nearest, he bent his steps thitherwards.

He did not pass into the walk without being observed. He had

taken but a few paces, when a man’s head, shrouded in a slouched

hat, was cautiously raised from the adjacent shrubs, and fixed so

as to view him without discovering itself. Whether he was or was

not alive to the objects around, this escaped his observation;

and probably in an excess of self-confidence, not caring to be

observed, or fearing to be molested, he passed along without

contracting any suspicion that he was watched and followed.

Thus he proceeded till the walk was crossed, at some little

distance from the mansion, by a public footpath, which opened

to him on either side a view through the trees. But though the

scene here presented had many points of attraction, only one

object seemed, by its seizure of his attention, to inspire him

with interest. This was the spire of a village church, which was

just visible over a wood-crowned hill, or eminence, about a mile

distant.

It was a pleasing feature in the landscape, and was calculated,

by its upland situation, to attract the attention of any

spectator; but the cavalier appeared to regard it with some

emotion. As he continued to gaze upon it, his face assumed a

graver aspect, and the thoughts which were passing through his

mind, evidently with pain, partly found utterance.

“Why not go there now?” he said. “’Tis but a short walk, and

I shall be back, if I make no delay, before they come down to

breakfast. I will even go.”

With these words, he passed off the park-walk, and struck into

the path that, with occasional curvatures, led across the park

towards the point he had been viewing. He walked at a smart pace,

and shortly arrived at the base of the hill, which presented a

less steep ascent, and a more level road, every step. The road,

taken from this point, wound through a small wood, now teeming

with verdure, and apparently alive with the notes that, as the

traveller passed along, broke through the foliage from a hundred

birds. Towards the summit the wood broke abruptly off, leaving

the country, which was spread around like a garden, open on one

side, and revealing a prospect of great extent and variety. Of

this, however, we have to deal with only one feature--the church,

which stood on an area immediately in front of the wood, on the

right-hand side of the road. It was surrounded, according to the

immemorial custom, with a burial-ground, enclosed by a sunken

wall, which escaped observation till one had almost approached

its brink. An old culvert, mantled with moss, opened from the

road to the churchyard gate, from which a path led past the

church porch to a gate at the further end. Over this the cavalier

bent his way, and, with an increased sadness of aspect, passed

over the graves to the back of the church, and there came to a

stand.

He turned his eyes hastily over the graves around, but only one

of the several before him fixed his attention. This was, like

the others, covered with green turf; but, unlike the others, it

was also marked by two white posts, one at the head, and the

other at the foot, which were surmounted by a board, bearing this

inscription:--

_=Hyldibrande Clyffurd,

Martyrre=_.

The eyes of the cavalier filled with tears as they fell on this

expressive memorial, yet there was mingled with his grief, in the

contraction of his arched brow, more than a shade of anger. But

it speedily subsided, and with a quick step, he passed by the

two or three graves that intervened, and, advancing to the one

indicated, he threw himself on the turf before the grave-post,

and buried his face in his hands.

Several minutes transpired before he looked up; and his face,

though still impressed with an air of dejection, was then more

composed, and his eyes less clouded. Casting a glance around,

he perceived that, though his impression had been otherwise,

he was not the only inmate of the churchyard, as a man stood

on the path before him who shared in the possession. He was of

the middle degree of stature, stoutly built, and apparently, to

judge from his already grizzled hair, about forty years of age.

His countenance might in early life have been prepossessing; but

either from care or dissipation, or perhaps from both, it was

now haggard and stern, and calculated more to excite suspicion,

than to command respect. There was, too, an unnatural brilliancy

in his eye, which, taken in connection with his shaggy brows,

and long and neglected locks, that peeped out from the brim of

his slouched hat, imparted to his looks an excessive wildness,

very far from being becoming. The impressions created by these

causes were confirmed, to a certain extent, by his attire, which

was slovenly and mean, and betokened no less an acquaintance

with poverty, than a habit of neglecting and contemning the most

essential duties of the toilet.

Directly this person, on his turning round from the grave,

incurred his notice, our young cavalier sprang to his feet,

and, with some degree of chagrin, prepared to retire from the

churchyard. Before he could carry his design into effect,

however, or had even taken a single step towards its execution,

the intruder interposed, and, by a few brief words, made him

pause.

“What ho! Master Hildebrand, is it thou I have been dogging so

close?” he said.

The cavalier, though evidently taken somewhat aback, turned a

glance of earnest inquiry on the speaker, and, after a moment’s

pause, replied--“Thou knowest me?”

“’Tis more than ten years since I last saw thee,” answered the

other, “and thou hadst then, if I mind me truly, scarcely seen

thy fourteenth summer, and yet I remember thee right well.”

“By my troth, thy face strikes me familiarly,” resumed the

cavalier; “but I need hardly go back so far, methinks, to call

it to my remembrance. Thou mayst thank thy horse that he showed

me good heels last night, or thou wouldst now, mayhap, have been

less at thine ease than thou seemest to be.”

The robber--for he was one of the two robbers who had attacked

Sir Edgar de Neville on the previous evening--faintly smiled as

he replied,--“And does thy memory bear thee no further back,

Master Hildebrand? What the good year! can such a brief time as

this, which has barely made thee a man, efface the memories of a

whole boyhood? Then, in good sooth, Master Hildebrand, I am not

the man to claim thy acquaintance.”

“Hold!” exclaimed the cavalier, springing forward, and seizing

the robber by the arm; “thou seemest to know me, and, by my

conscience, now I behold thee nearer, thy face doth strike me

like an old friend’s; who art thou?”

“When thy poor old father,” answered the robber, with some

emotion, “had been burned for heresy, in the reign of scarlet

Mary, it was my hands laid his ashes in yonder grave. When your

mother was houseless, with shame on her brow, and the pang of

sorrow in her heart, it was I gave her a refuge, and held her

safe from the hellish Papists. When her saintly heart beat its

last, it was my hands laid her there, by the side of your father.

Nay, hear me out! I cherished thee, their offspring: such lore as

I had knowledge of I taught thee, and would, in time, have had

thee better taught; but--”

“You lost me, good Bernard,” said the cavalier, seizing him by

the hand.

“Nay, I’ll not clasp thy hand,” said the robber, though at the

same time suffering the cavalier to take his hand up. “Thy hand

has met the clasp of Papists; and by my sweet Saviour, whom they

once made me deny, mine never shall.”

“Nay, good Bernard Gray, this is hardly honest,” said the

cavalier, in a tone of remonstrance. “By my faith, I did not

seek the Nevilles; I was seeking thee, not them, when they fell

unhappily in my way. I did but help the weaker side.”

“Was it any concern of thine?” demanded the man called Bernard

Gray, his eyes lighting up with the fiercest enthusiasm. “Am I to

be thwarted in my revenges by thee?”

“’Twas not the Nevilles, Bernard, Papists though they be, that

burned my father,” said the cavalier.

“Be they not of the devil’s flock?” returned Bernard. “But though

it hath cost me my comrade’s life, let it pass now; and tell me,

if thou canst, what ill deed of mine led thee to run away from

me.”

“Alas! Bernard, I never ran from thee,” answered the cavalier;

“I was forced away, and carried off, against my will, to the new

plantations. Thence I finally escaped, and, getting on shipboard,

became a mariner. I have prospered on the seas, and am now, I

thank Heaven, well to do in the world.”

“Forced away, saidst thou?” rejoined Bernard. “This must be

honest Master Shedlock’s work.”

“He was secure of my patrimony,” observed the cavalier, “yet

would he have made me a slave.”

“And a bastard,” muttered Bernard.

“Even so,” answered the cavalier.

“But he may be foiled yet,” resumed Bernard. “Where art thou

staying?”

“With the Nevilles,” replied the cavalier, with some hesitation;

“but ’tis only for a day or two. In a week, at furthest, I must

be gone.”

“I would rather thou didst not eat the salt of Papists,” said

Bernard; “but for a day or two let it be so. I shall be on the

watch, and will see thee again, by some means or other, before

long. Meanwhile, fare thee well!”

“Farewell, Bernard!” answered the cavalier, extending his hand.

They shook hands, and parted. Bernard took his way towards the

neighbouring wood; and the cavalier, without once looking behind,

turned to the high-road, and walked leisurely homewards.

Though his recent conversation with Bernard had shown him to be

cordially attached to that person, it must not be supposed that

this reconciled him, in the least degree, to the unlawfulness

and violence of Bernard’s pursuits. What was the precise nature

of those pursuits he did not know; but a sufficiency had been

revealed to him, in the affair of the previous evening, to

bespeak them unlawful, and even to stain them with the crying

guilt of blood. This was a melancholy recollection, and, only

that past obligations had taught him to look upon Bernard as

his best friend, it would have been impossible for him, with the

principles he entertained, to have maintained any correspondence

with that individual, whatever prospect of ultimate good or

advantage it might have held out to himself. But though his

dependence on Bernard was almost unalienable, it was for the

great debt which he already owed him, and which was bound up with

the deepest feelings of his heart, that he continued to regard

him as his truest friend. He knew, too, that Bernard had embarked

in the enterprise against Sir Edgar Neville more from motives of

revenge, which, however mistaken, had sprung originally from a

cruel and overwhelming provocation, than from a desire of spoil;

and this considerably lessened his detestation, if we may use

such a strong term, of his recent outrage.

On his arrival at Neville Grange, Hildebrand Clifford--for so the

cavalier was named--found that Sir Edgar and his daughter had

now descended to the breakfast-room. By them he was introduced to

the third member of the family, Don Felix di Corva, who, as has

before been set forth, was a Spaniard by birth, and related to

Sir Edgar’s deceased wife in the degree of cousin.

Don Felix was a youthful-looking man, of a slight figure, and

about the middle height. His complexion was dark, yet not of

that sparkling darkness which we associate with the young faces

of his country, but rather of a sallow tint, such as, in many

instances, arises from long confinement, or from an uncertain and

delicate state of health. His dark eyes, too, though brilliant,

were rather subtle than deep, and more indicative of cunning,

than denotive of penetration. On a first meeting, however, and to

an individual who did not found impressions on the illusive and

equivocal testimony of personal appearance, these unfavourable

points in his _ensemble_ might have escaped notice; but Don

Felix, by an unlucky fate, inherited a large share of the pride

and coldness of several generations of ancestors, and these

imparted to his manners a reserve and formality, that invited

attention to his every defect.

But though his disposition did not generally incline him to form

new acquaintances, he received Hildebrand, on this occasion,

with every mark of courtesy and respect. After the first

interchange of compliments had been despatched, he inquired

anxiously concerning the state of his wound, and expressed

himself gratified, in common with his two relations, that it

promised so fairly to be shortly healed. As the conversation

passed to ordinary topics, he seemed, it is true, to shrink more

into himself; but his reserve was less noticeable in the general

animation, and thus escaped remark.

The meal over, Sir Edgar announced his intention of visiting

a neighbouring magistrate, named Shedlock (to whom this

history has before had occasion to allude), for the purpose

of acquainting him with the particulars of the affair of the

preceding evening. Don Felix accompanied him; and Hildebrand and

the fair Evaline, who had already become fast friends, were left

to entertain each other till their return.

To two persons of their turn of mind this was an easy and most

agreeable employment. Hildebrand could tell, not only of strange

lands, but of a strange world--of the new hemisphere, which,

by the perseverance of a few daring adventurers, had just been

opened to the enterprise of Europe, and added to the limits

of the earth. Evaline could listen, question, and smile her

gratification: the relation of “the dangers he had passed,” both

by flood and field, and under every variety of fortune, unfolded

to her view a new picture of life and an enlarged idea of human

character. On the other hand, Hildebrand, without being vain,

or making himself the hero of his own tale, found pleasure in

relating and describing those dangers, because, from the interest

manifested in her countenance, he saw that “she did pity them.”

And thus, with the liveliest sympathies of each engaged, the

morning passed quickly by, and they were only admonished of its

flight by the return of Sir Edgar and Don Felix.

They now learned that the magistrate whom Sir Edgar had been

to visit was not at home when he called. This, however, most

unfortunately, was considered of little consequence; and as Sir

Edgar and he were not on neighbourly terms, it was determined to

send him a report of the late outrage in writing, and there, for

the present, to let the matter drop. A report of this kind was

accordingly drawn up, and transmitted, with a letter from Sir

Edgar, without further delay.

The day wore on without interrupting, by any single incident,

the harmonious relations that had begun to subsist between

Hildebrand and Evaline. The novelty of first acquaintance

subsided, but not its fresh and generous feelings; and they

continually presented to each other, by some stray sentiment

or expression, the trace of some new quality, or appeared

personally to new advantage. Yet their mutual esteem grew upon

them unconsciously, and they could not tell, with any accuracy,

whence arose those pleasurable sensations with which they almost

unwittingly regarded each other.

The day passed lightly off, as did the next, and several

succeeding days, and nothing happened to disturb the general

harmony. But a few days served to show Hildebrand, on close

observation, that at least one of the inmates of the mansion

began to regard him with displeasure. The Spaniard, Don Felix,

from whatever cause, evidently looked upon him with jealousy and

dislike. In vain did Hildebrand, by a marked courtesy, endeavour

to overcome this bad feeling; the Spaniard seemed desirous to

avoid him, or, when he could not do this, to approach him with

suspicion and reluctance.

Several days had elapsed, when one evening, shortly after sunset,

Hildebrand found a letter on the table of his bed-chamber, with

the superscription of “Captain Hildebrand,” which drew his

attention to other matters. The letter requested him to repair

that evening to the bottom of the park-walk, where the public

footpath, noticed in the early part of this chapter, struck

across the park to the village of Lantwell. There, the letter set

forth, he would find a friend, who was desirous to commune with

him, pursuant to their previous understanding, on a matter of

pressing moment.

Though there was little to guide him to such a conclusion,

Hildebrand rightly conjectured, from the tenor and spirit of the

letter, that his anonymous friend was no other than Bernard

Gray; and, therefore, he determined, directly he had run the

letter over, to set out for the spot appointed straightway.

The evening was just opening as he entered the walk which led

to the public footway. But he was so impatient to join his

friend, in accordance with the request of the anonymous letter,

that he walked at a smart pace, never thinking that he might

arrive at the appointed spot before he would be expected. As

he approached the scene of the appointment, one of Sir Edgar’s

servants--the same that had assisted him to repel the attack

of the robbers--met and passed him; but Hildebrand was so

bound up in the enterprise he had in hand, and the thoughts

and expectations connected with it, and to which he probably

attached more importance than was their due, that he rendered no

acknowledgment of the servant’s salute. Some half-dozen paces

more brought him to the footway, and he turned out of the walk,

and took a few steps into the open area adjoining.

A cluster of shrubs grew by the side of the footway, whence they

swept back, with diminished volume, to the park-walk, where they

were arrested by the tall trees with which the walk was bounded.

They were well adapted to afford any person who sought to avoid

observation a secure hiding-place, but they might, nevertheless,

have failed to incur the particular attention of Hildebrand,

only that a sound just now broke from them, like the tread of a

man’s foot on dead leaves, that led him to believe they were not

untenanted. Regarding them more attentively, he distinguished the

figure of a man, wrapped in a capacious cloak, crawling along

between the shrubs; and the next moment Bernard Gray--for he it

was--confronted him.

“How farest thou, Master Bernard?” said Hildebrand, extending his

hand.

“Indifferently well,” replied Bernard, accepting his proffered

hand and clasping it cordially; “and how dost thou?”

“I’faith, well enough in body, Bernard,” answered Hildebrand,

“but somewhat ill in mind. Thy note came duly to hand, and,

to speak sooth, was but timely; for I must leave these parts

to-morrow.”

“Thou know’st my retreat,” said Bernard, “in case thou hadst not

heard from me. ’Tis still at the Angel.”

“I should have sought thee there,” replied Hildebrand.

“Dost leave here i’ the morning?” asked Bernard. “I would thou

couldst wait, if it be possible, till thou seest me again.”

“I will wait till the even,” answered Hildebrand; “but what is

thy purpose?”

“I will tell thee, first, to be of a wary habit, and have a care

that thou comest not in the way of Master Shedlock,” returned

Bernard. “I have it on good warranty that he knows thou art

here.”

“I fear him not,” rejoined Hildebrand. “But what wouldst thou

have me stay for?”

“This hoary villain,” said Bernard, “who keeps thee from thy

birthright of Clifford Place, which he calls New Bethlehem, hath

a wife, who, albeit she holds him in an idolatrous love, hath yet

a spice of goodness in her temper; and I would have leave from

her to bring thee and her to a parley.”

“Wherefore wouldst thou this?” asked Hildebrand.

“She hath often told me,” resumed Bernard, “when I have mourned

thee dead, that she was assured thou wast yet living, and wouldst

one day return. She hath told me, too, that thy mother did her a

kindness years ago; and if so be that she lived to see thee, she

would bear it well in mind. Nay, it is she that bade me warn thee

now, in her name, to be upon thy guard.”

“Well, I will be ruled in the matter by thee, Bernard,” observed

Hildebrand; “but I cannot stay, mind, longer than to-morrow

even.”

“I will remember me so,” answered Bernard.

“There is one thing more I would ask of thee,” pursued

Hildebrand. “Hast thou aught to prove that I was born in wedlock?”

“Nothing--not a scrap,” replied Bernard. “There is no record of

thy mother’s marriage in the parish-book, though I could have

been sworn, at one time, that ’twas duly writ there. The old

vicar, Father Day, who wedded her, can only tell of it in heaven;

for he and thy father were buried together. There is no living

witness but myself.”

“Then I am but a natural,” said Hildebrand, bitterly.

“Despair not! despair not!” cried Bernard, seizing him by the

hand. “Who shall quarrel with the ways of Heaven? Hath He not

said, by the mouth of His holy prophet, that His ways are not our

ways, or His thoughts as our thoughts.”

The passion apparent in the voice of the enthusiast, which was

raised above its wonted tone, pervaded his whole frame, and his

hand clasped Hildebrand’s with the tightness of a vice.

“May His will be done!” said Hildebrand. “I will see thee again

to-morrow, Bernard.”

“At noon, on this spot,” replied Bernard; “and meanwhile be thou

on thy guard against Shedlock,--and fare thee well!”

“Farewell, and do thou be guarded also!” said Hildebrand.

The robber made no reply, but, silently waving his hand, turned

sharply round, and bent his steps over the footpath towards

Lantwell. Hildebrand watched him till he reached the boundary of

the park, when he also turned away, intending, though in no mood

for society, to return straight to the mansion.

But, looking up, he perceived that the outlet of the footway,

where it opened into the park-walk, was occupied by two persons,

who, from the animosity which was manifested in their looks,

appeared to be disposed to dispute his passage. One of these

was the servant whom he had encountered when on his way to meet

Bernard; and the other, who appeared to be the more hostile, was

his host’s cousin, Don Felix di Corva. He immediately remembered

that the servant had been in attendance on Sir Edgar at the time

that the Knight had been attacked on the road, and he reflected,

on a second thought, that he might now have seen him in

correspondence with his friend Bernard, and have recognised the

latter as one of the two individuals by whom the attack had been

made. This accounted, at the very first view, for the apparent

hostility of Don Felix, whom the servant, no doubt, in a moment

of rage, had brought to witness the duplicity of the family’s new

acquaintance.

Though taken by surprise, Hildebrand was not confounded by this

occurrence; and after a brief pause, he advanced towards the two

unfriendly observers with perfect confidence.

“A good even to thee, _Senhor_!” he said, addressing Don Felix.

“Such deeds as thine,” answered Don Felix, sneeringly, “give a

savour of vileness to the sweetest even. Hast thou no shame, Sir,

that thou canst thus meet mine eye unmoved?”

“I’faith, thou hast a foul tongue, Sir Spaniard,” returned

Hildebrand; “and only that thou art kinsman to good Sir Edgar, I

would straight clean it with my rapier.”

“Let not this spoil a good disposition,” said Don Felix. “Draw

forth thy wondrous rapier; for I denounce thee, in the presence

of this menial, as a traitor and a spy!”

A flash of anger mounted to Hildebrand’s cheeks at these words,

and his rapier, on which his grasp had already been fastened,

leaped from its scabbard on the instant.

“Such terms would provoke an angel!” he said. “Stand on thy

guard!”

But the Spaniard, expecting what was to follow, had already done

this, and, consequently, he met Hildebrand’s assault with perfect

composure. Indeed, as Hildebrand had not expected to find him a

skilful swordsman, and assailed him with some impetuosity, he

at first had the advantage in the struggle. Directly Hildebrand

perceived this, however, he became more collected, and a few

moments served to show that, at the least, he was fully equal,

if not superior, to his adversary. At length, the latter made a

lounge at his side, and Hildebrand, by an adroit stroke, beat his

sword out of his hand, and held him quite at his mercy.

“Take up thy weapon, Sir!” said Hildebrand.

With this he turned away, and, thrusting his sword into his

scabbard, passed down the walk towards the lower section of the

park, which was, from its greater seclusion, more in keeping with

the mood that he was disposed to indulge in. The Spaniard did

not follow him, and, left to himself, he had leisure to dwell

and ponder on the thoughts which his situation was so eminently

calculated to inspire.

Reflect how he might, he could not allow that he had done

anything wrong. He was disgraced, but undeservedly so; his

conduct was free from dishonour, but, whatever he might say,

he could not make this apparent. He had been seen in friendly

communication with a most questionable character, and he could

not explain, with any degree of safety, how his intercourse

with him was justifiable. Indeed, if circumstances had even

allowed him to render such an explanation, he could not give

it any appearance of probability; and his character, instead of

being cleared, would only be further degraded by the attempt to

retrieve it.

Such were the mortifying reflections that pressed upon the young

cavalier, as he hurriedly paced the park-walk. The night drew

nigh, and ultimately set in; but, insensible of the influences

around, he still indulged his reverie, and continued to pace the

same walk, maintaining the same smart step, without once halting.

But the night came on cold, and ultimately, falling into a slower

pace, the chill air aroused him. He then turned away from his

late walk, and passed leisurely towards the mansion.

It was a dark night, and the trees overhanging the walk made his

way still more obscure. He passed freely on, however; and had

just come within sight of the lights that now marked the mansion,

near the end of the walk, when a blow from a bludgeon, inflicted

by some person in his rear, knocked him down, and stretched him

senseless on the ground.

CHAPTER III.

The following morning found Evaline de Neville, according to her

usual custom, astir at an early hour. Early as it was, however,

she was sensible that the other members of the household had

been up for some time previous, and that a bustle prevailed in

the mansion, which, to say the least of it, was not customary,

and might indicate an event of some importance. She longed for

the arrival of her waiting-woman, in order that she might draw

from her, before she left her chamber, what it was that had so

disturbed the general tranquillity of the Grange. But the gentle

Martha Follet, as her attendant was named, was not at hand, and

Evaline was obliged to restrain her impatience, and so to hurry

her toilet, with her own unaided hands, that she might descend at

once to the breakfast-room, and acquire the desired information

from a more direct source.

She had scarcely entered on her toilet, however, when the fair

Martha made her appearance. She was a pretty and modest-looking

girl, and, whether from nature, or merely from the habits of

her office, of a bearing and presence superior to her station,

and to which one might, without risk of contradiction, apply

the explicit phrase of “genteel.” She had, to all appearance,

scarcely seen sixteen summers, yet her countenance was sad

and mournful, and wore a look of anxiety that, if it had been

permanent, would have sat ill on a much older person. But

although she was now dejected, there was in her large blue

eyes, under a dash of tears, a flow of radiance and animation

that bespoke anything but melancholy, and, under a propitious

influence, it could no doubt be expanded, with more charming

effect, into that attractive expression denominated “archness.”

A smile rose to the maiden’s lips as she approached her mistress,

but it was a mournful one, and could not conceal the uneasiness,

not to say anxiety, that was manifested by her other features.

Evaline, surveying her earnestly, observed her dejection at a

glance.

“Why, Martha, what is amiss?” she inquired, somewhat anxiously.

“I hope, nothing of moment, dear lady,” replied Martha. “Master

Shedlock, the sheriff, is here, and some other strangers; but

they can do no hurt to Sir Edgar, I should ween.”

As she spoke, a tear rose to her eyes, and, breaking over the

long, silken lashes, trickled down her pale cheeks.

“Master Shedlock here?” cried Evaline, in a tone of mingled

surprise and alarm. “What dost thou mean, Martha?”

“Oh, my lady,” answered Martha, fairly bursting into tears, “they

have accused Sir Edgar of murder, and he is now a prisoner, in

the dining-hall.”

“This almost passes belief,” said Evaline, turning very pale.

“Art thou sure they have done this?”

“I heard Master Shedlock affirm it to Sir Edgar himself,”

answered Martha. “The crowner’s quest, that sat on the body of

the dead robber, have averred that he was murderously slain; and

Master Shedlock hath seized Sir Edgar as the murderer.”

“The malignant upstart!” exclaimed Evaline. “But his project,

whatever it be, can be easily frustrated, and made to recoil upon

himself. Quick, Martha! I must not be absent from my father when

he is thus abused.”

Martha, who only waited her mistress’s directions to begin,

readily entered on her duties, and Evaline was soon engaged in

the various details of the toilet. These arranged, she sprang to

her feet, and, bidding Martha attend her, quitted the chamber,

and repaired to the dining-hall.

She found the whole household collected in this apartment. These,

however, were not the only inmates, nor was it on them that she

bestowed her notice. At the head of the long dining-table, which

passed down the centre of the room, stood a group of persons who

first attracted her eye, and immediately engaged her undivided

attention.

The group consisted of her father, her cousin, Don Felix di

Corva, and three strangers. Of these last, the principal was

one who, even while the spectator was ignorant of his name and

worth, inspired respect by his mere presence. His height was full

six feet, and thus, by its marked pre-eminence, distinguished

him from those around at the very first glance. His manly and

vigorous limbs, which his erect posture exhibited to advantage,

corresponded with his stature, and were all fitted with exact

proportion, and turned with the most perfect grace. But what most

prepossessed the spectator in his favour was his countenance,

which seemed to claim for him, through the medium of its various

features, not only the respect which should be paid to the best

qualities of the heart, but the veneration which is due to

loftiness of intellect. He was attired in costly habits, fitted

to his person with great care, and indicating, by the harmony

of their colours, and the simple elegance of their design, the

nicest and most refined taste.

By his side stood a person who appeared to greater disadvantage,

perhaps, from his proximity to so much excellence. He was a

short, spare man; but, for his years--which were somewhat

beyond fifty--looked hale and healthy. If the countenance of

his companion, the cavalier just described, was his greatest

recommendation, that of this individual embraced his most

prominent defects. His forehead was low; and, from his wearing

his scanty locks closely cropped, looked much lower than

it really was: his eyes were small and piercing, and, when

they were raised from the table (which was not often), were

continually twisting about, like a ferret’s; his nose was long,

and sharp, and turned up at the end; and his mouth, especially

when compressed, seemed to stretch right across his face, and

to form a sort of pitfall, if one may so speak, beneath his

high cheek-bones. Unlike his companion, he was attired in grave

garments, which were cut with great formality; but, whether

from haste, or from habit, had been put on in the most careless

manner, and evidently by a hand, whatever actuated it, that

deemed any labour of the toilet irksome and unprofitable.

The third stranger was almost equal in stature to the one first

described. In all other respects, however, he was decidedly

singular, and bore no resemblance to any one person present.

His figure was so lean, and, at the same time, so tall, that he

looked like a shadow, and scarcely appeared to possess sufficient

strength to maintain his own balance. His face was small, and

emaciated, and was by no means improved, if it were not greatly

disfigured, by the manner in which he wore his long red hair,

which was combed down over his forehead, and made his face look

little larger than a good-sized boy’s. Like the cavalier before

named, he was clad in grave habits, of a close and formal cut,

and a fashion long defunct; but, to judge from their scanty

dimensions, they were not his own, and he seemed to have been

driven into them by main force.

Evaline, after a first glance at his face, recognised this

individual as the sheriff’s clerk, and the short, puritanical

person at his side, whom we have described at some length

before, as Master Shedlock, the sheriff. Who the third person

was, or whether he was associated with Shedlock, or was a friend

of her father, she could not conceive. But she had not time to

form many conjectures on this point; for, just as she gained the

head of the table, a few words from Shedlock, addressed to the

cavalier in question, made her understand his exact position.

“I am right glad, Sir Walter,” observed Shedlock, in a whining

tone, “that thou didst happen to be present when this paper

was brought to me. See here!” and he unrolled a scrap of paper

which he had in his hand: “the poor murdered Samaritan, whom the

sons of Belial call a robber, was held trustworthy by my Lord

Treasurer, the light and horn of Israel. This paper was found in

his pouch, and is a warranty, beyond all question, of his perfect

honesty. Read it, sirrah!” and he handed the paper to his clerk.

The clerk, with a humble reverence, caught up the paper, and, in

the same whining tone as his master, read from it these words:--

“The bearer is in my employ.

“W. BURLEIGH.”

As Evaline heard this announcement, she turned her eyes on

her father, and observed that, though strongly marked with

indignation, his face betrayed considerable anxiety. She felt

her own heart quake, but, in her concern for her parent, she

suppressed her personal fears, and affected to appear composed.

She then stepped forward to the side of Sir Edgar, and, laying

her hand on his arm, made him aware of her presence and vicinity.

“Be under no fear, my child,” said Sir Edgar, perceiving her.

“Our innocence, I thank Heaven, can be clearly established, and

these worthy gentlemen will then depart satisfied.”

“I hope it may so turn out, Sir,” observed the cavalier called

Sir Walter. “But where is the person who, according to thy

report, did this man to death?”

“Hast thou sought him, Adam?” demanded Sir Edgar of a servant who

stood behind him.

The servant, with some savour of embarrassment, glanced anxiously

at Don Felix di Corva, and made no reply. Don Felix, however,

came to his rescue.

“He has not been seen since last even,” he said.

“’Tis strange,” remarked Sir Walter, “that he should thus absent

himself, at a time when his evidence was sure to be called for,

without communicating with his host. But who is he?”

“Thou wilt hardly believe, Sir, that I cannot tell thee,”

answered Sir Edgar, with an appearance of confusion; “but I do

not even know his name.”

The person called Sir Walter, who had hitherto seemed to regard

the investigation with scarcely any concern, looked graver on

receiving this answer, and apparently began to think the matter

somewhat important. There was a brief pause before he spoke again.

“I fear me,” he then said, addressing Sir Edgar, “we must issue

our warrant for thine arrest.”

“Surely, this cannot be!” exclaimed Sir Edgar, indignantly. “The

law, be it ever so cruel, durst not sanction such violence as

this.”

“Forbear! forbear, malignant!” cried Shedlock. “Art thou not a

murderer?”

“Peace, Sir Sheriff!” said Sir Walter. “’Tis not for us to decide

on the gentleman’s guilt. He must to prison; but ’tis on mere

suspicion.”

“To prison, Sir?” cried Sir Edgar. “This must be jest. An

English justice, methinks, durst not commit such a stretch of

authority.”

“God forbid I should exceed the law,” answered Sir Walter; “but

it bears on thee, as a Papist, with terrible severity. I speak

not to offend; but the last bull of the Bishop of Rome, wherein

our gracious Queen is termed a usurper, and her Popish subjects,

to whom she hath been so gentle a mistress, urged to assail her

sacred life, makes us view all Papists with notable jealousy. An

emissary of my Lord Treasurer is found dead on the road, and,

thou sayest, was slain in attacking thy litter; but even if thy

tale be true, he may have attacked thee, not from a desire of

spoil (which is anent to all reason and likelihood), but to seize

thee in some act of treason. The very person who slew him, for

aught we know, may have been a seminary priest, and so already

condemned to the gibbet.”

“This is monstrous!” cried Sir Edgar, passionately.

“Peace, malignant!” exclaimed Shedlock.

“Peace thou, Sir Sheriff!” answered Sir Edgar; “and remember,

though power may abet thee now, a day of reckoning will come,

when thou shalt be called to account.”

“Aha! dost thou threaten me?” replied Shedlock. “Thou thinkest to

see the day, then, when the Papist faction shall hold the powers

of the state? But surely the Lord will protect his people! O! my

trust is in the Lord, and he is mighty to deliver his saints!”

“Enough, Master Shedlock,” observed Sir Walter, impatiently.

“’Tis our duty, from what we have heard, to send this gentleman

to prison; but we have no warrant to give him any offence.”

Evaline, who had listened anxiously to the whole of the preceding

dialogue, heard these last words with a mingled sense of

dejection and hope--dejection that her father should be dragged

so ignominiously from his home; and hope, abetted by what had

passed, that Sir Walter might still be their friend, and leave

him at large. Though of a timorous temper, this hope emboldened

her, in the pressure and excitement of the crisis, to step

somewhat forward, and by a timely intercession, seek to secure

Sir Walter’s good offices.

“Is there no resource, Sir,” she said, in a tone of deep anguish,

“but my father must go to prison? He is innocent--indeed, indeed,

he is!”

Sir Walter looked on her so intently, that he seemed, for the

first moment or two, to be reading her very heart; but the fair

girl, whom such a gaze would have confounded at another time, was

affected too deeply by her sorrow to be moved by his survey. Her

dark eyes, which were wont to beam with tranquil joy, were still

turned imploringly on his, and her face remained deadly pale, as

if the mournful expression that hung over it braced and locked up

every feature.

“I do believe thee, lady,” answered Sir Walter, in a kind tone;

“but there is, unhappily, no resource. Thy father must to prison,

but, if it please thee, thou mayst bear him company to Exeter,

and there, at thy convenience, have free access to his presence.”

There was little mitigation of the first sentence in this; but

the assurance that she might bear her father company, and,

whenever she felt inclined, share the discomforts of his prison,

was not without a soothing influence. She thanked Sir Walter for

his urbanity; and, Sir Edgar, seeing that he was not actuated

by a spirit of persecution, but solely by a sense of duty,

which the extraordinary circumstances of the times pressed with

particular severity on Roman Catholics, also tendered him his

acknowledgments. It was then arranged, that Sir Edgar should

immediately repair, under an escort of two constables, to the

county gaol, at Exeter; and that instructions should be forwarded

to the gaoler, on the responsibility of Sir Walter, to allow him

to be freely visited by his daughter and cousin, and to treat

him with the utmost respect. This arrangement, so much more

lenient than the accused party had been disposed to expect, was

not effected with the concurrence of Shedlock; but Sir Walter

overruled his opposition, and induced him, by a few peremptory

words, to yield acquiescence. Matters having been thus settled,

Sir Walter dropped a courteous bow to Sir Edgar and his family,

and, breaking through the group around him, passed out of the

mansion, followed reluctantly by Shedlock.

Sir Walter did not address a word to his companion till they had

mounted their horses, which, on emerging from the mansion, they

found waiting them at the door. On setting forward, however, in

their way down the avenue to the road, he broke the silence.

“This matter is somewhat serious,” he remarked; “for, besides

that Sir Edgar de Neville, by his own acknowledgment, is a

Papist, I perceive that he hath some family connections with

Spain. These will be greatly to his detriment, I fear me, in the

mind of the Queen’s Highness.”

“Ay, verily, her Highness is wise,” answered Shedlock, “and

righteous to judge the earth--even as Deborah, with whom was the

sword of the Lord, and who was as a scourge to the Philistines.”

“Even so,” rejoined Sir Walter; “and her Highness hath good

reason, since the beheading of the Queen of Scots, to regard all

Papists with unsleeping jealousy. Nevertheless, I would wager a

round sum, an’ I had it idle, that this Sir Edgar will approve

himself innocent.”

“Fie on thee now, Sir Walter Raleigh!” exclaimed Shedlock.

“Wouldst thou abet Amalek, and lend a buckler to the disturbers

of Israel?”

Sir Walter Raleigh--for it was indeed that great man--smiled as

he replied: “I’faith, thou art over-zealous, Sir Sheriff. But

’tis a good fault! ’tis a good fault!”

“Over-zealous!” cried the Puritan, raising his small, piercing

eyes till only the white was visible; “who can be over-zealous

for the Lord? Shall the sword of Gideon, which hath scared the

Antichrist in his den, be cast aside, and the ungodly sons of

Belial yet muster for the battle?”

“No, no, not so,” answered Sir Walter. “But let us speak of it no

more. Thou knowest, Master Shedlock, I sought thee this morning

on other business. The matter of the Popish knight was forced on

me by thee.”

“And thou hast therein thwarted me,” remarked Shedlock, “to thy

very utmost. The Lord forgive thee, Sir Walter Raleigh!”

“I did but put a drag on thy hot zeal,” answered Sir Walter;

“and who could do a less thing, Sir Sheriff, for so fair a lady?

But I see thy skeleton clerk is coming up with us,” he continued,

as, casting a glance in his rear, he discovered the individual

specified, mounted on a lean and Rosinante-looking steed, riding

after them. “Let us put forward a space, and I will then tell

thee, with my customed brevity, what is the project I would

engage thee in.”

Shedlock silently complied with this request, and, without

further words, he and Sir Walter clapped spurs to their steeds,

and rode smartly on. They had now gained the high-road, and, as

they passed along, Sir Walter unfolded to his companion, with his

promised brevity, the project to which he had alluded, and in

which he sought to engage his pecuniary support.

The project referred to was to send out two ships, which were

now lying in Topsham harbour, to Sir Walter’s plantations in

Carolina, with some labourers and necessaries for the colonists,

and a few bales of merchandise, of various descriptions, to

traffic with the Indians. On their homeward voyage, the two

vessels were to endeavour, by a slight deviation from the direct

track, to fall in with the homeward-bound Mexican galleons of

Spain, and, in virtue of the letters of marque which they would

carry, attack such of them as they could detach from the fleet,

and strive to effect their capture. As one of these vessels would

be an inestimable prize, Sir Walter had made great exertions to

raise means to fit out the expedition, but a considerable sum was

still wanting, after all his resources were exhausted, to render

the outfit complete. In this dilemma, he proposed to Shedlock,

who had advanced money on several of his past adventures, that

he should have one half of the profits of the expedition,

conditionally that he paid one fifth of the expense; and this was

to be secured to him, whatever the profits might be, free of all

charge or deduction.

Shedlock did not hesitate long over this proposal.

“An’ I were assured that thy cruizers would capture a galleon,

thine offer were not amiss,” he said; “but how know I, if they

were to come to quarters, that these ungodly Popish Spaniards

will not baffle thee?”

“Have they baffled me aforetime?” demanded Sir Walter.

“No,” replied the Puritan; “but thy cruizers, now left to a

deputy, were then led by thyself; and, like David, thy hast been

a man of war from thy youth up. Howbeit, an’ thou wilt secure me

on thy two ships, by making them mine in case of failure, I will

advance thee the money.”

“I will secure thee on one ship,” returned Sir Walter; “and the

worth of that is more, in its bare outfit, than the whole sum I

require.”

After some bickering, Shedlock, with affected reluctance, but

really with much inward satisfaction--for the proposal was

more advantageous than he had expected--accepted the offer.

He suggested that the conditions of their agreement, with the

security agreed on, should at once be transferred to paper,

and signed and sealed by each of them, in the presence of an

attorney; and he promised, on this being done, that the sum Sir

Walter wanted should be immediately forthcoming.

By the time these particulars were arranged, the two horsemen

had arrived at Bethlehem Hall, the Puritan sheriff’s residence.

On their drawing nigh the mansion, a short, squat woman, who had

been aroused by the sound of the horses’ feet, and had come forth

from mere curiosity, made her appearance at the abutting porch,

for the purpose of ascertaining, by a survey of their persons,

who and what they were. Having satisfied her curiosity, she was

about to turn into the house again, but Shedlock, happening to

glance that way, discerned her retreating figure, and shouted to

her to stop.

“Ho, Abigail!” he cried.

“Who calls Abigail?” demanded the woman, turning sharply round.

“Hither, hussey, and see!” returned Shedlock, drawing up before

the porch. “Verily thou art a stubborn stock, and stiff-necked,

as was Israel of old. Thou must be bent to obedience, woman, by

a strong hand, and an outstretched arm. Surely, the spirit shall

make me strong to prove thee.”

The woman to whom his rebuke was addressed, and whom the last

moment had brought close up with them, was about fifty years

of age, and had the appearance of an inferior domestic, or, to

use a modern phrase, servant-of-all-work. She was, as has been

remarked, a short, squat figure, which time appeared to have

strengthened and braced up, rather than impaired. Her features

were harsh and rigid, and marked, just below the mouth, on

the ball of the chin, with distinct traces of a beard, partly

sandy-colour, and partly grey. Her appearance was rendered

doubly unprepossessing, on a closer survey, by her mean and

slovenly attire; which, not only from its cut, but in its

materials, was unsightly in the extreme, and was no way improved

by its sundry varied patches of grease and grime.

She did not make any reply to the reproof of Shedlock, but,

raising her small brown eyes, she looked him full in the face,

and thus waited whatever he might say further.

“Now I see in thee the iniquity of Jeroboam, which caused Israel

to sin,” cried Shedlock. “Wilt thou take these beasts, or not?”

The woman sulkily stepped forward, and, with some show of

impatience, caught up the bridles of the two horses, and twisted

them round her brawny arm. Sir Walter and Shedlock, without

taking any notice of her demeanour, then alighted, and passed

through the porch into the house.

Crossing the hall within, Shedlock led Sir Walter to another

apartment, less capacious in its dimensions, at its further end.

Here he invited him to be seated; and Sir Walter, who did not

need a second invitation, threw himself into the only chair in

the chamber, and prepared to make himself at home.

“Hast thou ever a draught of water in thy reach, Master

Shedlock?” he inquired, on thus disposing himself. “By my lady’s

hand, I could now look pleasantly on a flowing spring.”

“’Tis well said, Sir Walter,” observed Shedlock. “Water is a

good drink; and Jehonidab, the son of Rechab, who drank no wine,

shall not want a man before the Lord for ever. I will straight

send thee some water, and, if thou wilt wait my return here, I

will ride off for Master Hardscrew, the attorney, and have him

despatch our business at once.”

“Be it so,” answered Sir Walter. “But I brought a small leather

box here this morning, hoping to bear away with me, an’ we came

to a settlement, the money thou art to furnish me withal. I would

I had it here now.”

“’Tis there,” replied Shedlock, pointing to a leather case, that

lay in one corner of the chamber.

Having thus pointed it out, he passed into the hall, and Sir

Walter, left to himself, proceeded to possess himself of the

leather case. Raising it from the floor, he drew a small key

from his vest, and, with a steady hand, applied it to a padlock,

which, with the aid of a bolt and small staple, fastened the

cover to the body of the case, and unlocked it. The fastenings

removed, he opened the case, and drew forth a small pipe, made

of cherry-stick, with a bowl at the end, or, rather, at one end,

made of burned clay. A little bag, that had been lying under the

pipe, in the bottom of the case, furnished him with some tobacco,

which he first loosened well with his fingers, and then placed in

the bowl of his pipe. This done, he drew a small tinder-box from

the case, and, with the aid of its accompanying flint and steel,

quickly procured a light. Having ignited his pipe, he shut up the

leather case, and returned to his seat.

Meantime, his puritanical host, wholly bent on business, passed

quickly across the hall, intending to set off straightway for

lawyer Hardscrew. As he drew near the porch, he encountered his

clerk, who, having ridden at the utmost speed of his horse, had,

at last, after several stumbles, got safe home again.

“Zedekiah,” said Shedlock, looking at him steadfastly, “hie to

Abigail for a flagon, and take a draught of water to Sir Walter

Raleigh, in the blue room yonder. Shall we not give the stranger

a cup of water, that he may gladden his heart withal?”

Zedekiah Truman--for such was the name of the sheriff’s

clerk--heard this order with some degree of dismay, but he did

not venture to render his hesitation manifest. He looked upon Sir

Walter Raleigh, of whose great learning and wondrous ingenuity

such wild stories were everywhere current, to be little better

than a magician, who, by some unlawful and prohibited means,

maintained an intercourse with the spirits of darkness; and

as Zedekiah regarded the devil, if not all his works, with an

unconquerable aversion, he naturally felt no way inclined to

venture alone into his presence. Necessity, however, left him no

alternative, and he reluctantly proceeded on the errand intrusted

to him.

Having procured the water, he retraced his steps, full of grave

reflections on the iniquity of magic, and the danger of holding

any intercourse, of whatever nature, with the great source of

evil. He was confirmed in this opinion on reaching the hall

when a strong smell of burning, emitted by Sir Walter’s pipe,

assailed his nostrils. Still he pursued his way, and, though not

without hesitation, passed on to Sir Walter’s chamber, and threw

open the door.

He cast one glance at the centre of the room, and there, to

his utter amazement, he beheld Sir Walter seated quietly in

an easy-chair, emitting from his mouth volumes of flame and

smoke. Not doubting that this was some devilish enchantment,

the terrified Puritan, with a trembling grasp, raised up the

large flagon which he had in his hands, and threw the whole of

its contents right into Sir Walter’s face. Then, with a cry of

despair, he turned hastily about, and made off.

CHAPTER IV.

Besides Zedekiah Truman and the maiden Abigail (for Abigail

had never been married), the establishment at Bethlehem Hall,

of which we have been recently treating, embraced another

individual, who, being Master Shedlock’s wife, might with

propriety be considered its mistress. But if Dame Shedlock was

such in name, or, to take a higher ground, by right, a very

limited acquaintance with the economy of the Hall, on occasions

of a general nature, would show that she was not so in fact. So

far, indeed, from governing others, she was scarcely mistress of

herself, but was held responsible by her lord for whatever she

did, and was continually being subjected, according to the turn

of his capricious temper, to all those mortifications and trials,

which too often form the portion of the uncomplaining wife.

Few women could have borne this treatment with the meekness and

patience that were manifested by Dame Shedlock. Her equanimity

was, to all appearance, above the reach of those circumstances

which influence most tempers, and was founded on qualities too

sterling to be corrupted, and too solid to be undermined. She

met insult, however gratuitous, with the most calm endurance;

she submitted to degradation, without a murmur; and, what was

stranger still, as opposed to the strongest principles of our

nature, she repaid the tyranny of her husband with the deepest

and most absolute love.

It is a difficult thing to tear the affections from one

who, in times past, has been their stay and centre; and it

may be doubted whether the heart can ever wholly alienate a

once-cherished object; but that love, which comprehends the

softest feelings of our nature, bound together by the most

tender memories, should be proof to a continuous succession of

outrageous assaults, and survive all fellowship and reciprocity,

seems almost impossible. Yet Dame Shedlock, in her attachment

to her husband, realised this seeming anomaly. After a life of

ill-usage, she still clung to him as fondly, as devotedly, and

even as passionately, as on the day that, glowing with maidenly

confusion, she first surrendered to him her hand and heart. He

might be a bad man; she might know that, in his dealings with

the world, he often committed very unscrupulous acts; but yet

her bosom found him an excuse, or awarded him a justification.

Such a deed might appear evil in her eye, but it had, no doubt,

a sanction in the practice of the world, or was called for

and justified by the circumstances of the times. She would not

acknowledge that the absolute possessor of her most precious

sympathies, on whom she reposed her happiness here, and her

wishes of hereafter, was stained and defiled with the hideous

colours of guilt: even if he were so, it was not by her, the wife

and partner of his bosom, that his actions were to be questioned,

or his conduct condemned. In short, despite his ill-usage, and

the groveling selfishness of his nature, which he seemed to pride

himself in making apparent, she loved him; and this explains, in

one word, every trait in her conduct that appears singular or

unnatural.

If Dame Shedlock had been a mother, her love for her husband

might, from the division of her affections, have been less

stable, and more alive to those slights and provocations, which

fall on the heart with a depressing influence. Less possessed

by her love, she would have viewed his character more closely:

she would have deemed his affectation of sanctity, which she now

considered pure and genuine, sheer hypocrisy, and his violations

of right, oppressive and sinful. His selfishness, dissimulation,

and avarice, however disguised, would have deprived him of her

respect; and his tyrannical disposition would probably have

provoked her contempt. But, secluded from all society, having no

channel but him for the sweetest effusions of her amiable and

gentle nature, her love was without restraint, and she could see

in his heart no shade of evil, or trace of blemish.

It is not always that an individual’s temper, as far as regards

its principal characteristics, may be seen in the face; but in

Dame Shedlock’s, it was written distinctly. Her complexion was

dark, and, though she might be in her fiftieth year, her hair,

where it was visible, was still dark also, yet not unmingled with

grey. Her eyes were of a deep brown, and amply answered, by their

quiet and subdued light, for the evenness of her disposition,

and the docility of her nature. The impression they created was

confirmed, on a closer survey, by her other features, which,

though not of a classic mould, were regular and harmonious, and

were more charming from their sweet melancholy, chastened by the

soft light of resignation and endurance, than they would have

been in the full glow of mere youth and beauty.

Such was the person who, a few minutes previous to the period

that closed our last chapter, while Shedlock and Sir Walter

Raleigh were yet in the avenue, passed into the pleasure-ground

that surrounded Bethleham Hall, and proceeded down a secluded

side-walk. For some few minutes she walked leisurely along,

without sustaining any interruption, or, indeed, encountering

or seeing a single individual. But after a while, she came to

a spot where, pushed out by a small shrubbery, the path swept

close up to the park-fence, in which there was a blind gate,

communicating with the lane beyond. Though she was within a pace

or two of the gate, she did not observe that it was slightly

ajar; and it was not till she came abreast of it, and, thinking

she heard a rustling noise in that quarter, turned an inquiring

gaze thitherwards, that the fact incurred her notice. Her gaze

was still turned on the door, when it was suddenly pushed open,

and a man, whom it had served as a place of ambush, presented

himself at the aperture.

She gave a slight start as she glanced in the man’s face, and

then turned an anxious gaze around her, as if to ascertain, by

this hasty survey, whether any other person was within sight. But

the view was, from the curve in the walk, very limited, and in

neither direction extended more than a dozen yards, when it was

lost in the sweep of the adjacent shrubbery. So far as her glance

reached, however, there was no person in view, and, satisfied of

this, she turned her eye on the man again.

“Bernard Gray, what wouldst thou?” she inquired.

“I knew thou wouldst come this way,” answered the person

addressed, and who, it will be inferred, was no other than our

friend Bernard, “and I waited here to see thee. Since I was with

thee last, I have been in talk with young Clifford, and warned

him to be wary.”

“And he has gone?” said Dame Shedlock.

“That has he not,” replied Bernard, “though he is to go, an’ no

ill happen him, this even.”

Dame Shedlock turned pale on hearing these words. “An’ he be not

gone already,” she said, “he may not go at all. Thou shouldst

have urged him to depart incontinently.”

“He gave my warning no heed,” returned Bernard. “He hath no fear

of peril.”

“Is he so valiant?” inquired the dame.

“Faith, there be none more so,” answered Bernard. “’Twould do

thy heart good, lady, to see what a brave cavalier is he now. I

prithee, take pity upon him, and lend him thy countenance.”

“What wouldst thou have me do?” demanded Dame Shedlock.

“Though knowest, lady,” replied Bernard, “that these broad lands,

though they be vested in thy husband, be his rightfully; and----”

“’Tis false!” cried Dame Shedlock, with much passion. “But

begone! begone! I’ll no more with thee!”

“But one moment!” implored Bernard.

“Hush, for thy life!” said the dame: “some one comes, and the

step, methinks, is his.”

“I’ll seek thee again to-morrow, then,” said Bernard, in a low

tone.

Thus speaking, he stepped into the lane, closing the door behind

him. Almost at the same moment, Shedlock--for the dame was right

in her conjecture--made his appearance in the walk, within a few

paces of where they had been conversing.

This was a dilemma of which the dame had had no expectation.

Already disturbed by her conversation with Bernard, the sudden

approach of her husband, who looked on Bernard as an enemy, took

her perfectly aback, and her generally-serene face presented the

most lively traces of embarrassment and confusion.

Shedlock observed her discomposure instantly, and its

inconsistency with her usual demeanour, which was so uniformly

placid, invoked in his mind the most singular suspicions.

“Who hath been here?” he demanded, on coming up with her.

Before the dame could reply, he turned to the contiguous gate,

and, drawing it open, looked out on the lane. There was no one

there, and, stepping back, he pushed the gate close again, and

turned to the dame once more.

The latter person had by this time recovered herself; but her

present composure, though almost perfect, and quite relieved

of every trace of confusion, did not lead him to forget her

previous bearing. Indeed, it rather served, from the breadth and

prominence of the contrast, to attach to his suspicions some

shade of confirmation.

“Woman!” he cried, in a voice husky with rage, “what doth this

mean? Who hath been here, I say?”

“Dost think I would wrong thee, then?” answered the dame. “No!

no!--not for my life!”

“Who hath been here?” demanded Shedlock, seizing her by the

collar of her bodice.

“Nay, never hurt me, husband!” replied the dame, shrinking a

little. “Only say thou wilt forgive me--say thou wilt not be

angered, and I will tell thee.”

“Woman! I have a mind to dash thee down,” rejoined Shedlock,

giving her a slight shake, “and to trample thee under foot, as

the angels of darkness trample on Judas. But I will forbear, and

the Spirit, through the mercy of the Lord, shall hold me back.

Who hath been here?”

His small ferret-like eyes glared fearfully on her face, and

there was a red flush on his brow, just beneath the brim of his

hat, that made the dame tremble. Still she resolved to tell him

the truth, though she knew that, in his present mood, it would

draw down upon her head the full fury of his anger.

“Do me no harm, husband!” she said. “’Twas the man Bernard Gray.”

“Ah!” cried Shedlock.

“Indeed, dear, I sought him not,” said the dame, earnestly.

“He was standing here, as I came up; and I gave him but a cold

welcome.”

“What sought he here?” demanded Shedlock.

“That know I not,” answered the dame, “for, while he was yet

speaking, we heard thy step approach, and he broke away.”

Shedlock’s angry eyes ran quickly over her face, but there

was nothing there to awake in him, by a want of harmony with

the general expression, the least doubt of her sincerity. Her

complexion, it is true, had undergone a change, and was very

pale, and, moreover, there was a trace of hesitation about

her lips; but Shedlock knew her too well to attribute this

manifestation to conscious guilt, or aught but her terror. It

was clear that she spoke the truth, and that she thought, in the

confidence and simplicity of her nature, that he would believe

her; for she had never uttered a falsehood yet.

“The Lord deliver me from thy snares,” ejaculated Shedlock,

devoutly, and, at the same time, releasing her from his grasp.

“Verily, the Lord is strong to deliver me.”

“Of a surety, is he,” answered the dame. “Put thy trust in the

Lord, and he shall deliver thee out of thy trouble.”

“Peace, thou Jezebel, and get thee hence!” returned Shedlock.

“There is a malignant yonder, in the blue chamber, who will serve

thee, mayhap, for this vagrant Bernard. Get thee to him, and hold

him there till my return.”

Dame Shedlock made no answer, but, turning silently away,

proceeded to obey the injunction of her lord.

A few minutes of brisk walking brought her to the hall, which she

entered, intending, though still somewhat agitated, to cross to

the blue room without delay. Just as she passed under the porch,

however, she was encountered by Zedekiah Truman, who, in his

eagerness to retreat, had almost run her down, and now brought

her to a stand.

“Zedekiah, what troubleth thee?” she asked, in amaze.

But the terrified Zedekiah, whether from fear, or from want of

breath, was quite speechless, and, in reply to her inquiry, could

only point to the open door of the blue room. Turning her eye

thitherwards, she perceived a cavalier--who, indeed, was no other

than Sir Walter Raleigh--standing in the middle of the chamber,

and shaking from his locks and face a continuous stream of water.

She was wondering what this could mean, when Zedekiah, whom she

had seized by the wrist, sought to throw off her hold, and resume

his interrupted flight.

“The devil! the devil!” he cried, in tremulous accents. “I saw

the devil talking with him.”

Thus speaking, he wrenched his wrist from the dame’s grasp, and,

pushing past her, dashed through the hall-door. The dame, though

her heart was not quite itself, maintained her ground, and, again

glancing at Sir Walter, waited an explanation of this singular

incident.

She was not kept in uncertainty long. Sir Walter, aroused by

Zedekiah’s exclamation, which revealed to him the spring and

motive of that person’s conduct, speedily recovered himself; and

though, with all his vexation, he could hardly repress a hearty

laugh, proceeded to inform her how he came to be placed in a

plight so deplorable.

He soon made the dame sensible, by his comprehensive explanation,

that the simple Zedekiah was entirely mistaken, and that the

report of his having been in correspondence with Satan was

utterly unfounded. Satisfied of this, the dame supplied him with

a napkin, in order that he might remove the water from his face

and hair. She then hastened, at his request, to explain what had

happened to her two domestics, as Sir Walter feared that they

might otherwise alarm the neighbourhood, and so put them to great

inconvenience.

During her absence, Sir Walter endeavoured, as far as

circumstances would permit, to restore his disordered toilet.

He accomplished his purpose with ease; for his ruff, or frill,

which, according to the fashion of the day, he wore high, was

but very slightly wet; and this was the only part of his dress

that the water could damage. By the time that he had perfectly

effaced all vestige of the water, the dame rejoined him; and the

most polished courtier of an age which, by the testimony of both

“tale and history,” abounded in polished courtiers, entered on a

_tête-à-tête_ with a Puritan matron.

Though far in advance of the prejudices and confined feelings

of his era, Sir Walter was not, on the whole, over pleased with

this situation. He was, however, of that felicitous disposition,

that he made himself at his ease in whatever society he might

happen to be mingled with; and at a time when, as now, he was

on the brink of enterprises that involved the most gigantic

interests, and were attended by the greatest risks, which no

care or foresight could avoid, would bend his mind to the most

trifling points of etiquette, and the least significant details

of social harmony. Still, he hailed the return of Shedlock, after

an interval of about an hour, with some degree of pleasure, and

felt that the accession to the company relieved him of an irksome

task.

Shedlock was accompanied by the lawyer, Master Hardscrew, whom he

had, conformably to his expectations, found at home, and easily

induced to return with him to the Hall.

The arrival of these individuals afforded Dame Shedlock an

excuse to retire, which, on a signal from her husband, she did

forthwith. They were, as they desired, thus left to themselves,

and, free from all obstruction, they entered on the business

that had brought them together. The particulars of this being

already settled, and only the written agreement, in which those

particulars were to be embodied, remaining to be done, they

shortly brought it to a close.

Whatever might be its charms, Bethlehem Hall was not the sort

of place, when the choice rested with himself, that Sir Walter

Raleigh would find delight in; and therefore, after he had come

to a settlement with Shedlock, he lost no time in taking his

departure. But he did not carry away with him what had been the

chief object of his repairing thither. Shedlock, though immensely

wealthy, kept but little money in his house, the greater part

of his rents being vested in a mercantile concern, at Exeter,

in which he occupied the position of sleeping partner. It was

arranged, therefore, on the agreement being signed, that the

advance to be made by Shedlock should be paid over to Sir Walter

the next morning, at the countinghouse of the aforesaid concern;

and, with this appointment, the contracting parties separated.

The countinghouse of Shedlock and Craftall--for such was the

designation of the concern alluded to--was situate in the

High-street of Exeter; and, though the operations of the firm

were by no means limited, was presided over by the individual

who, from whatever reason, was named last. It was not, however,

in the firm’s designation only, but in everything he engaged in,

that this person played second to Shedlock; and not to Shedlock

alone, but to every one else. So excessive was his modesty, that

he had never been known to act on an opinion of his own, and, if

he did so act, he kept the matter a profound secret. To hear him

speak, one would imagine, on a first acquaintance, that he was

incapable of knowing anything from his own observation, or of

doing anything at his own prompture. It was always “worthy Master

This,” by his account, that told him so-and-so, and “honest

Master That” that suggested such a thing. He carried his modesty

so far, in all outward appearance, that he would not exercise

his own judgment on the most common occasions. Such a neighbour

might pursue his trade unfairly; he could not say: it was true,

indeed, that gentle Master Chatter, who was said to have good

opportunities of knowing, had told him it was so; but he could

form no opinion on the matter himself. Another neighbour was

hanged for murder: the place of execution, over the city-gaol,

was opposite to his window, and the gibbet and swinging corpse

literally stared him in the face; but he only knew of the

occurrence from honest Master Pry. He never interfered with any

one; he could hardly be said, indeed, to understand his own

business, much less be acquainted with that of others; and, by

those who esteemed themselves shrewd and knowing, he was looked

upon as a harmless but irreclaimable fool.

Notwithstanding this, Master Craftall had raised himself, some

way or other, from an obscure station, and very limited means,

to be a partner in the chief firm in Exeter. His lean, ungainly

figure, and hard features, though the last were hardly ever free

from a quiet smile, affecting benevolence and equanimity, might

have been a disadvantage to him in another walk of life; but, in

that of commerce, they had formed no impediment to his progress,

and he plodded his way to wealth unobserved, without exciting

enmity, or awaking esteem.

Such was the person who received Sir Walter Raleigh, with one of

his blandest smiles, at the door of his countinghouse, on the

morning after his visit to Bethlehem Hall. Stepping out from the

door, he assisted the knight to dismount, and then, delivering

his horse to the care of his groom, invited him to pass to the

interior. There Sir Walter found Shedlock, and Hardscrew, the

lawyer; and after a brief greeting, these persons proceeded, by

paying him over the stipulated sum, to bring their transaction

with him to a close.

Their business effected, Sir Walter was about to take his leave,

when Craftall, turning round from an adjacent desk, from which he

could see and hear all that passed, interposed.

“Doth worthy Master Shedlock guess truly, good Sir Walter,” he

said, in a silvery tone, “that thou art sending out a ship to

Carolina?”

“That does he, Master Craftall,” answered Sir Walter. “I am

sending two ships thither.”

“Wherefore askest thou this?” inquired Shedlock.

“I have it from gentle Master Chatter,” replied Craftall, in the

same silvery tone, “that thou hast just apprehended an escaped

felon, a runaway from the plantations; and sweet Master Pry, who

was by when it was told me, thought the knave should be again

sent to the plantations, if occasion should serve.”

“Verily, Master Pry thought well,” observed Shedlock.

“If the man be truly a runaway,” said Sir Walter, “and of an able

body, he will be right welcome; for we have but few labourers.”

“The harvest truly is great, but the labourers be few,” remarked

Shedlock.

“I know not if he be a runaway,” said Craftall; “but worthy

Master Chatter, who is reported to be well informed on such

matters, so named him to me.”

“Master Chatter named him aright,” observed Shedlock. “Moreover,

he is of an able body, and, in all things fitting, well endowed.”

“We will have him aboard at once,” said Sir Walter. “I purpose

to despatch my own ship with the morrow, and she may tarry for

the other, which is a hired one, at Carolina.”

Shedlock’s small eyes, which hitherto had been bent on the table,

were raised up at this moment, and emitted a gleam of intense

satisfaction.

“Verily, ’tis the resolve of wisdom,” he said, as if to himself.

“Well, I will leave it to thee, Master Shedlock,” remarked Sir

Walter, “to see that the knave be handed over to my captain. And

let it be done this even, Sir Sheriff, an’ it please thee.”

“This even, or to-morrow, as thou wilt,” answered Shedlock. “He

is in Topsham Gaol, near the Quay; and thy two ships, methinks,

lie in Topsham Harbour; so he may be moved at thy convenience.”

“Be it this even, then,” said Sir Walter.

“Verily, I will give thee a note to the gaoler,” returned

Shedlock, “directing him, on the receipt thereof, to deliver the

knave into thy charge at once.”

Sir Walter, anxious to secure the reputed convict, expressed his

approval of such an arrangement, and Shedlock hastened to carry

it out. Having written the note, he handed it over to Sir Walter,

and that individual, who had now no further business with him,

and was heartily weary of his company, thereupon took his leave,

and departed.

His groom waited without with his horse, and, quickly mounting,

Sir Walter bade him attend him to Topsham.

Topsham, the port of Exeter, was a small straggling town, situate

on the estuary of the Exe. It was only five miles distant, and

though the road, owing to a recent copious rain, was somewhat

heavy, and their horses had that morning been ridden many miles,

they passed along at a quick pace, and soon entered the principal

street.

At that point of their journey, Sir Walter espied a person

approaching, in company with three sailors, whom he recognised as

the lieutenant, or chief mariner, of his favourite ship; and he

called to him to stop.

“Ho, Master Halyard!” he cried, drawing up his horse.

The person addressed immediately came to a halt, and then,

looking round, let his eye fall full on Sir Walter’s face. After

he had thus surveyed his features, he raised his hand to the brim

of a very broad tarpaulin hat; and the three sailors who were

with him, and who, on his coming to a halt, had ranged themselves

in his rear, instantly performed the same evolution. Having

caught a good hold of the brim of his hat, the lieutenant pulled

his head forward, as if he intended to make a bow; and the three

sailors, as in the first instance, followed his example.

“Ay, ay, Sir!” cried the lieutenant.

“Ay, ay, Sir!” cried the three sailors.

“Is your captain aboard?” asked Sir Walter, with a smile.

“I’faith, no, Sir,” answered the lieutenant. “About a week

agone, when we had set all taught aboard, he started on a cruise

inland. He hath not shown his colours here since.”

“When doth he come back?” inquired Sir Walter, somewhat

disappointed.

“That know I not, Sir,” replied the lieutenant. “But he hath left

a parcel aboard for your honour, and his bearings, no doubt, be

therein set down.”

“We will aboard together, then,” said Sir Walter, “and see

how we stand. But first, Master Halyard, an’ it suit with thy

convenience, we’ll bear down on the town-gaol, and take in charge

a prisoner I have there.”

The lieutenant, though he had no wish to be brought in contact

with a landsman, such as the prisoner would most probably prove,

readily acquiesced in his proposal; and Sir Walter set forward,

at a leisurely pace, for the specified locality, followed by his

servant and the mariners. On arriving at the gaol, he drew up his

horse, and, resigning the rein to his servant, leaped to the

ground, and inflicted a loud knock on the gaol-door.

Sir Walter was still knocking when the door was pulled open; and

the gaoler, scowling like a thunder-cloud, presented himself in

the doorway. Shedlock’s note, and, what he regarded as much, Sir

Walter’s evident quality, seemed to propitiate his favour, and

his countenance somewhat brightened as he invited the whole party

to enter.

The prisoner was confined in an inner cell; and, therefore, it

was necessary, before they could proceed thither, to procure a

light. This, however, was speedily done, and the gaoler then led

the way to the cell.

The door of the cell was low and narrow, and, consequently, they

had to enter singly, bending their heads as they passed under the

threshold. The gaoler entered first, and, stepping on one side,

turned round to the door again, and held up the light to Sir

Walter. Thus aided, Sir Walter distinguished the floor of the

cell, and ventured to enter.

As he alighted on the hard floor, he took the light from the

gaoler, and, holding it out before him, glanced round in quest of

the prisoner. The latter, undisturbed by their visit, was sitting

on a heap of straw, in the furthest corner; but, from the gloom

that hung around, Sir Walter was a full moment before he could

make him out. When he did distinguish him, he gave a sudden start.

“What! no! yes!” he exclaimed; “’tis my trusty friend, Hildebrand

Clifford.”

And, dropping the light, he made a spring forward, and seized the

prisoner by both his hands.

CHAPTER IV.

Adversity is the only true touchstone of human worth and

integrity. It may require some limited degree of excellence, on

certain occasions, to deport ourselves becomingly in a time of

prosperity, and the smiles of the highest good fortune sometimes

distract and intoxicate. But adversity, with a relentless hand,

and a determination that nothing can subdue, probes the heart to

the quick, and develops every individual quality of which it is

composed.

The apprehension of her father on a charge of murder fell like

a thunderbolt on Evaline de Neville. She was, it was true,

aware that he was innocent, and that malice only prompted the

proceedings that had been taken against him; but, despite

of this, she could not conceal from herself, on reflection,

that he was in a situation of great peril, and that the very

circumstances which would establish his innocence with an

impartial person, uncorrupted by the party excitements of the

time, would weigh most heavily against him with a jealous and

prejudiced government.

Sir Edgar was a Roman Catholic; and that fact alone, though he

were ever so orderly, was sufficient to render him an object

of suspicion. But his matrimonial connexion with Spain, the

great bulwark of the Roman Church, and a power with which

Queen Elizabeth was constantly embroiled, made suspicion more

active, and afforded a reasonable ground for regarding him with

distrust. At a time when the members of the Roman Church were

taught, by an authority their religion declared to be infallible,

that the Queen of England was no more than an usurper, and that

it would be no sin to remove her by assassination, and when the

conspiracy which led to the execution of the Queen of Scots was

still fresh in remembrance,--at this time, a Roman Catholic

accused, however unjustly, of murdering an emissary of the Lord

Treasurer, might well apprehend that the scales of justice would

not be held very evenly, or his judge be entirely free from

enmity or prejudice.

Evaline knew little of the world. Brought up in the seclusion of

Neville Grange, the spirit of the time was known to her, in most

of its bearings, only by report, and it was only from history

that she was acquainted with the depravity of human nature. She

knew that, because she was a Roman Catholic, her influence was

circumscribed, and the sphere of her action restricted; but,

beyond this, she had little personal knowledge of the policy of

statesmen, or the injustice of governments. Still she had an

idea, if an imperfect one, of the looseness and insecurity of

her position, and it was this that now raised in her those fears

for her father, which we have sought, in the foregoing remarks,

clearly to explain.

But after the first shock of the unexpected calamity had

subsided, the whole energies of the fair girl were braced up,

in all outward appearance, to but one object--the comfort and

support of her father. Within, the struggle continued; the heavy

load of grief, with its thrilling apprehensions, which time

amplified rather than reduced, still pressed upon her heart; but

its rare qualities rallied under the weight, and inspired her

with strength and fortitude commensurate with the occasion.

Only in her countenance, among all the inmates of the mansion,

could there be seen anything that soothed fear, or excited hope;

and though its aspect was but assumed, it soon began to have an

effect on the demeanour of others. Her father, whose despondency

was chiefly occasioned by his concern for her, seemed to acquire

new vigour as he looked on her placid features, and saw that she

did not bow before the emergency in despair, but nerved herself

to meet, by his side, whatever evil was to befall. He now felt

his child was a solace, instead of a source of anxiety; and found

relief from sharing with her the burthen of adversity. In a word,

he aroused himself from the moody fit which the decision of the

two justices had brought upon him, and prepared to meet the

issue, whatever it might be, with dignity and fortitude.

The example of their master and youthful mistress was not lost

upon the servants, and the faces of the afflicted household,

from the steward downwards, shortly wore a lighter appearance,

though still a mournful one. Only the Spaniard, Don Felix di

Corva, whether from the insensibility of his nature, or the

stubbornness of his dejection, was unmoved by the carriage of the

chief sufferers; and he became more sullen and reserved every

moment. But in the bustle attending the preparations for Sir

Edgar’s departure, in company with Evaline and himself, which now

engaged the general attention, his demeanour was overlooked, and,

consequently, had no influence on the temper or deportment of

others.

Evaline herself superintended the arrangements for their journey.

These were, through the example of her activity, speedily

completed, and the moment of their departure at length arrived.

The vehicle mentioned in the first chapter of this history, in

the account of the adventure with the robbers, was drawn up

before the steps of the hall-door, and announced to be ready

for their reception. Around it was collected a group of Sir

Edgar’s tenants, most of whom, besides being bound to him by many

obligations, professed the same religion as he did, and, with the

jealousy which persecution never fails to excite, considered that

he was now suffering for that religion, and, therefore, regarded

him with peculiar sympathy. Many of them, too, especially of the

poorer sort, had experienced the good offices of Evaline; and the

remembrance of distresses that her bounty had mitigated, or of

hours of sickness that, either by her personal interposition, or

by means less direct, but equally effective, her active sympathy

had relieved, gave an additional and deeper interest to the scene

that they had come to witness.

Every head was uncovered, and many a blessing, “not loud,

but deep,” ejaculated in their behalf, as Sir Edgar and his

daughter appeared at the hall-door. Neither of them spoke a word

in acknowledgment--their hearts were too full to speak;--but

they both looked round kindly on the crowd, and this, in their

estimation, was acknowledgment sufficient. They passed hastily

to the carriage, followed by Martha Follett; and, stepping in,

at once took their seats in that vehicle, and closed the door.

Don Felix di Corva, pursuant to a previous arrangement, mounted

a saddle-horse, as did the two constables also; and, all being

settled, the mournful cavalcade set forward for Exeter.

This was a trying moment to the afflicted inmates of the

carriage. It was the moment of separation--the parting from their

native home--the crossing of the bourne, as it were, that divided

them from the strife and troubles of the wide world. All the

comforts and peace of that dear abode, which habit, no less than

affection, associated with the blithest impulses of their nature,

were now to be exchanged for a prison, and the tranquillity of

their past lives for anxiety and sorrow. They were passing from

retirement into the world--from security to peril; and their

home had never seemed so dear to them, under any former trial or

visitation, as at that moment.

Nevertheless, they had a strong support in their mutual sympathy,

and a high consolation in religion. The pang was acute at first,

but, in the end, it was not without a happy effect; for the sweet

feelings that it awakened, by the similarity and harmony of their

tone, rendered the parent and his child more one being, and made

the terrors of their position seem less hideous and repulsive.

It was not till they had gone some distance on the high-road that

Evaline became any way composed. Her mind then turned on a matter

which, in the hurry and excitement of the few past hours, she had

hardly thought of, but which she now viewed with very serious

concern. This was the singular disappearance of Hildebrand

Clifford, which she felt, on reflection, had exercised a material

influence on the position of her father.

The disappearance of Hildebrand was so exceedingly mysterious,

that she could not, by any stretch of conjecture, reasonably

account for it. One moment, she thought that he had absented

himself but for a few hours, as his horse, which her father had

pronounced to be a valuable one, was still at the Grange, and his

travelling-case had been found unlocked in his chamber. But would

he, under any possible inducement, so far outrage all decorum,

as to leave her father’s residence without telling any one that

such was his purpose? She was sure, he would not! Either, then,

his absence was but temporary, and he would shortly join them

again, or he had met with some accident, which, contrary to

his inclination, detained him at a distance. Evaline did not

entertain this conjecture without a great degree of uneasiness.

Indeed, in the first instance, she strove to repel it; but as she

felt certain that Hildebrand was incapable of rewarding their

hospitality and courtesy with rudeness or contempt, and she could

not think of any other excuse for his conduct, the conviction

grew upon her, in spite of her earnest wishes for his safety,

that he had met with some untoward mishap.

After dwelling on the matter for some little time, she could not

refrain from mentioning to her father, in rather a tremulous

tone, what was passing in her mind.

“The cavalier who did us such good service, father, has absented

himself somewhat mysteriously,” she observed. “I much fear he has

encountered some accident.”

“We are hardly warranted, Evaline, in holding him in suspicion,”

answered Sir Edgar; “but, I confess, I cannot make his singular

disappearance look honourable. But he may, for aught we know,

be some paltry adventurer, who hath more knowledge of wars than

courtesies, and is better acquainted with the customs of a

soldier, which we have seen him fulfil manfully, than the habits

of a gentleman.”

“Oh no, father!” cried Evaline, with some eagerness, “thou canst

not--I am sure thou wilt not--deliberately say this of him.

Whatever he may turn out, he hath always shown a very graceful

behaviour, no less as a gentleman than a soldier.”

“Well, I think he has,” rejoined Sir Edgar. “And yet--But what

can we think, Evaline?”

“Indeed, I know not,” said Evaline, in an earnest tone.

As she spoke, she felt a trembling hand laid timidly on her arm,

and, turning round, her eye fell on Martha Follett.

“If thou art speaking of the stranger-cavalier, my lady,” said

Martha, in an under tone, “I think Don Felix knows where he is.”

“What says the girl?” inquired Sir Edgar.

“’Tis nothing, Sir,” answered Evaline. “She thought my good

cousin, Don Felix, might know where our missing guest had gone;

but he hath no more knowledge of the matter than ourselves.”

“Yet the girl may speak on some grounds,” observed Sir Edgar.

“What meanest thou, Martha?” he added.

“Indeed, Sir, the matter ought to be made known to thee,”

answered Martha; “and though I am loth to be thought a

tale-bearer, I will even tell it thee myself. And ’tis only

myself, I believe, that can tell thee all, though most of the

servants know something hath happened.”

“What dost thou mean?” demanded Sir Edgar, with some impatience.

Evaline spoke not; but her eyes, which previously had been

turned the other way, were bent anxiously on Martha’s face, and

manifested the deepest interest.

“Yesterday, Sir,” said Martha, “in the afternoon, as I was

passing down the private walk of the park, I suddenly encountered

a somewhat gay-looking cavalier, whom I had never, as far as

I remember, seen any time before. I was passing on, when he

seized my hand--I must own, not uncivilly--and begged me to take

a letter which he gave me, and which was inscribed to Captain

Hildebrand, to the cavalier who had rescued my master from the

robbers. Before I could well give him any answer, he turned

quickly away from me, and was out of sight in a moment.”

“Well,” said Evaline, anxiously.

“When I had recovered myself, my lady,” continued Martha, “I

made all the haste I could home, and betook me to the cavalier’s

chamber. He was not there, but I had hardly time to lay the

letter on the table, and hide me in a neighbouring closet, when

his step was on the threshold. He espied the letter straight,

and, snatching it up, he tore it open, and seemed to read it

over, and over again. This done, he buckled on his sword, and

passed out to the park.”

“What hath this to do with Don Felix?” said Sir Edgar.

“Old Adam Green, Sir,” replied Martha, “who fought with thee

against the robbers, met the cavalier in the park, and, it seems,

observing something strange in his portance, had the curiosity

to follow him a while. Presently, as he reports, he saw him come

to a stand, when he was joined by a man that Adam took to be the

robber who escaped.”

“’Tis impossible!” exclaimed Sir Edgar.

“So I said, Sir,” resumed Martha, “and Adam, now he is sober,

says himself he thinks he was mistaken. But at that time, being

amazed, he made all the haste he could towards the house, when

who should he meet, at the end of the private walk, but Don

Felix. He told his lordship what he had seen, or supposed he

had seen; and they then turned back together, under Don Felix’s

direction, to the spot where the cavaliers had met. There they

saw them in deep converse, and, parting presently, they took

leave of each other in a most friendly sort, shaking hands

cordially. Captain Hildebrand kept his eyes on his friend,

according to Adam’s report, till he had passed out of sight, when

he turned round, and beheld Don Felix.”

“What then?” inquired Sir Edgar.

“Don Felix, Sir,” continued Martha, “acting on the testimony of

Adam, called the captain a spy. Some further words passed, and in

the end they fought.”

“Did Felix kill him?” cried Evaline, clasping her hands

convulsively together.

“No, lady,” answered Martha; “but the captain had nearly killed

Don Felix. He disarmed him; and, giving him back his sword, told

him he spared his life, and turned away. He has not been seen

since.”

There was a moment’s pause, when Evaline, in an under tone, asked

her father if it would not be advisable to stop the carriage, and

see if Don Felix really knew what had become of their missing

guest. Sir Edgar, however, thought such a step would be extremely

unwise, as he felt certain that Don Felix knew no more of the

cavalier than was known to themselves, and, by stopping the

carriage to confer with him, they would awaken suspicion in the

minds of the two constables, who doubtless had directions to

watch them closely, without serving or answering any reasonable

purpose. But he expressed his determination, with some warmth,

to investigate the matter thoroughly on their arrival at Exeter,

and to make Don Felix account for his conduct in every individual

particular.

This was but poor satisfaction to Evaline, whose generous nature,

ever ready to sympathise with the oppressed or the unhappy,

was in this case more than usually alive to tender emotions,

the suffering party being, in her estimation, the preserver of

her life and honour, and a person whom she knew to be possessed

of many estimable qualities. Nevertheless, she did not press

her proposal on her father, but contented herself, as well as

she could, with what he had promised, being assured that he was

better qualified to clear up the mystery than she was, and was,

moreover, as warmly interested for Hildebrand as herself.

It was dark by the time they arrived at Exeter. This made the

prison, at all times a gloomy edifice, look more terrible and

forbidding than it was; and hope seemed to pause before the grim

and relentless frown of its portal.

A loud knock, inflicted by one of the constables, brought forth

the gaoler, and caused him to open the well-secured gate.

Sir Edgar and Evaline, leaving Martha in the carriage, then

alighted, and, accompanied by Don Felix, and Adam Green, his

valet, and attended by the two constables, passed to the interior

of the prison.

An apartment was quickly prepared for Sir Edgar’s reception.

Evaline could not repress a tear as she surveyed it, yet the

gaoler, no less from a respect which he had for Sir Edgar’s rank,

than from a conviction that he would be liberally remunerated for

any kindness he might show him, had really taken some pains to

set it in order, and had made it as comfortable as circumstances

would permit.

The air struck coldly on the delicate frame of Sir Edgar, but he

would not suffer Evaline, who saw its effect upon him, and sought

to pass the night with him in the prison, to remain with him more

than a few moments, but entreated her to leave him to himself

till the morning, and endeavour to obtain some repose. A mounted

servant had been despatched, immediately on their arrival in

Exeter, to engage for her a suitable lodging, and this had been

secured, and was now, by his report, ready for her reception.

Evaline would fain have stayed with her father a short time

further, but he so urged her to retire, that she was obliged,

however reluctantly, to accede to his wishes. Before she retired,

however, she reminded Sir Edgar of the promise he had made her,

during their progress to Exeter, that he would strictly question

Don Felix concerning the disappearance of Hildebrand Clifford;

and begged that he would do so without delay.

“Fear not but I will, dear,” whispered her father in reply;

“though I have no hope, from all we have heard, that he knows

more of the cavalier than we do. But good night! and God, in his

goodness, bless and protect you, my darling!”

Evaline would not trust herself to speak; but she pressed her

pale lips, cold and trembling as they were, on her father’s

cheek, and broke hastily away.

She had never parted from him this way before; and in the cold,

dark night, to pass out of that gloomy prison, and leave him

within, was a severe and terrible trial. As she took her seat in

the carriage, it rose before her in its blackest colours, and,

unable any longer to restrain her feelings, she buried her face

in her hands, and burst into tears.

She continued to weep till the carriage drew up at the door

of her hostel; for Martha, though sympathising with her most

cordially, was too deeply moved herself to offer consolation

to another, and could only show her sympathy by her tears.

Nevertheless, she did not suffer her distress, deep as it was, to

render her forgetful of her duty, or to make her neglect those

little attentions which were called for by the occasion, no less

than the custom of her office. As the carriage-door was opened,

she assisted her mistress to alight, and, following her into the

house, attended her to her chamber. Having helped her to undress,

she bade her a sincere good-night, and retired.

Hope has a powerful influence over young hearts, and, in the

development of this influence, often manifests a more sterling

excellence than we are apt to suppose. It is hope--often, indeed,

founded on the dictates of piety, or the whispers of reason, but

still hope--hope that we may yet, with all our afflictions, rely

for aid on the presiding hand of Providence, or that we may find

circumstances more supportable than we had thought--it is still

hope, in whatever form, that lends the soothing balm to every

sorrow, and the first breath of buoyancy to every sinking heart.

When her attendant had retired, and Evaline was left wholly to

herself, she opened her heart to Him who could appreciate its

excellence: and she rose from her knees with a humble reliance on

His mercy, and submission to His will, that took from the blast

of misfortune more than half its edge. As she pressed her fair

cheek to her pillow, she thought of the many great blessings

which, notwithstanding the sorrow of her present situation, she

still owed to the bountiful hand of the Almighty; she remembered

that she was yet possessed of health, station, perfectness of

body and mind, and a liberal fortune; and out of the pious

remembrance of the benefits she had received from Heaven,

and which, though they might appear slight to some, really

comprehended the chief objects of human desire, arose a hope of

brighter days, and a promise of renewed enjoyment. The emotion

awakened by her grateful sense of the favours of Providence,

though of the very gentlest kind, called into action the best and

noblest feelings of her heart, and these supported her under the

affliction of the day, and nerved her with fortitude to meet the

morrow.

She rose early in the morning, after a sound and refreshing

sleep; and having, with the aid of Martha, fulfilled a brief

toilet, hastened to join her father. She found him alone, and,

like herself, more cheerful than on the previous night. There

was even a smile on his lip as he pressed her in his arms; and

they sat down to their morning meal, which showed no lack of

provision, with some savour of contentment.

But Evaline had something at heart that prevented her from

eating. She forbore speaking for a time, hoping that her father

would mention the subject: but at last, unable to restrain her

impatience, or, to speak more correctly, her anxiety, she broke

the silence.

“Didst thou put Felix to the question, father?” she inquired.

“I did,” answered Sir Edgar, “but gleaned no more from him,

in answer to my inquiries, than we knew before. He cannot even

conjecture how the cavalier hath disappeared.”

“I do fear me, Sir, he is a revengeful man,” said Evaline,

hesitatingly.

“No, no, thou wrongest him,” replied Sir Edgar. “’Tis true, he

hath taken a dislike to the cavalier; but ’tis because he thinks,

all things regarded together, that he is one of the Government

spies. And thou knowest, Evaline, the country is overrun with

these folk.”

“I’ll be sworn he is no spy, Sir,” said Evaline, earnestly. “But

where is Felix now?”

“At my desire, he has ridden over to the Grange,” answered Sir

Edgar, “with the view of making every possible inquiry for the

cavalier, wherever there is any chance, from the little we know

of him, of obtaining the least information. Old Adam was to have

gone with him; but I have, on reflection, sent him on to London,

to bear the tidings of my arrest to Master Gilbert, the attorney.”

“The cavalier may have returned to the Grange, when Felix arrives

there,” remarked Evaline. “He cannot--I am sure, he cannot be a

spy.”

“Indeed, I think with thee, Evaline,” said Sir Edgar. “I begin to

fear he hath met with some mischance.”

Though Evaline had feared the same thing over and over again, her

father’s utterance of these words, whether because they took her

by surprise, or because of the confirmation which they afforded

to her worst and least welcome expectations, shot a thrill of

the keenest anguish through her anxious bosom. That one who,

at the imminent risk of his own life, had preserved the lives

of herself and her father, and afterwards so nobly spared that

of her cousin--who was so courageous, so high-minded, and so

engaging--so admirably endowed both in person and heart--should,

as it were, under their roof, incur the least possible hurt, was

certainly sufficient to stir and agitate the deepest springs of

her nature. If it had been herself, or even her father, who was

far dearer to her than herself, that had received some severe

personal injury, she could not have been more concerned than

she was for him. The longer she thought of it, and the more she

perplexed herself with conjectures on his fate, the more deeply

and painfully interesting did the subject become; and, for the

first time in her life, she felt time a burthen, and wished to

anticipate the morrow.

The day passed heavily on, and the evening, like the darkness

it foretokened, “drew its slow length along.” Yet there were no

tidings of Don Felix. The hour at which the parent and his child

must separate, and which had all day appeared so remote and

tardy, now seemed to approach too quickly: Martha and two male

servants had already come to escort Evaline to her hostel; and

still--still there was no intelligence from the Spaniard. Evaline

felt her heart beat more anxiously, when the clatter of horses’

feet, which the stillness of the night reverberated from the hard

road without, struck distinctly on her ear. Before she could

make any remark on the circumstance, the horses were drawn up

beneath the chamber-window, and a loud knock was inflicted on the

gaol-door.

“’Tis Felix!” cried Evaline, starting up.

“Be patient, dear,” said Sir Edgar, twining his arm round her

slender waist. “Thou art too anxious. Thou tremblest like an

aspen.”

Evaline made no reply: she did not seek even to release her

waist, by which her emotion had been betrayed, from her father’s

clasp; but, in this position, waited whatever intelligence might

be about to be communicated.

She was not kept long in suspense. In a few minutes, the

chamber-door was opened; and the gaoler, with a show of great

deference, introduced two cavaliers. One of these, who was

rather the taller of the two, Evaline recognised as the person

who had been associated, in his capacity of magistrate, with the

vindictive Shedlock, in the inquiry which had terminated in the

committal of her father to prison; but the other was so closely

muffled in a capacious riding-cloak, that she could not even

conjecture, from any point in his appearance, who he could be. As

the gaoler retired, however, and left them by their four selves,

he threw back his cloak, and revealed the features of Hildebrand

Clifford.

Both Evaline and Sir Edgar gave a slight start; but their

surprise, though greater than can well be imagined, was quickly

lost in the excess of their joy. Evaline, who was the first to

recover herself, could hardly place a check on her feelings, and

was almost impelled to spring to Hildebrand’s side, and reveal

her pleasure in the warmth of her welcome. But she refrained from

this procedure, though she could not repress a sweet and modest

blush, bright as the feelings it expressed, which the excitement

had called from her heart, and which secretly reproached her for

her eagerness and impetuosity.

But Hildebrand needed not words to assure him he was welcome.

He saw at a glance, not only that he was welcome, but that his

presence afforded his two friends the very highest pleasure. He

paused but a moment, and then, with a smile on his lips, stepped

gracefully forward, and presented his left hand to Sir Edgar, and

his right to Evaline.

“We meet in a gloomy place,” was all he said.

“God’s will be done!” said Sir Edgar, bowing his head.

“Hadst thou but told this gentleman, my good and honoured friend,

that the hand that brought thee to such a pass was Hildebrand

Clifford’s,” resumed Hildebrand, “thou hadst been safe in Neville

Grange, Sir Edgar. But, never care, Sir: all will go well now.”

“I knew neither his name, nor thine, my friend,” answered Sir

Edgar, pressing his hand.

“Mine I have told thee,” said Hildebrand. “This worthy cavalier

is Sir Walter Raleigh.”

At these words, both Sir Edgar and Evaline, in spite of the

conflicting feelings by which they were agitated, turned a glance

of earnest curiosity on the face of Hildebrand’s companion;

and, by the respect manifested in their looks, showed that fame

had truly reported to them, in common with the world at large,

the honourable reputation of that distinguished name. And the

man whom suspicion had regarded as a paltry adventurer, or

insinuated to be a spy, with whom no person of character could

safely associate, was the friend and companion of Sir Walter

Raleigh--one of the chief luminaries of the age. A glow of pride

suffused itself over Evaline’s cheek, as if she had received a

personal honour, apart from the share in the passing scene, in

such a vindication of Hildebrand; and when Sir Walter advanced to

accost her, she made a step forward to meet him, and presented

him her hand unasked.

“Things cannot but go well,” said Sir Walter, pressing her hand

in his, “with so noble a lady, and so honourable a knight.”

“Will there be much delay, Sir?” asked Evaline, anxiously.

“Will there be any?” said Sir Edgar.

“It may be all arranged to-morrow,” answered Sir Walter. “Our

friend here has, in the presence of two credible witnesses,

made oath to a statement in my hands, which quite clears up the

whole affair. But should there be any impediment in respect to

Master Shedlock, who, I fear me, bears thee no good will, I will

undertake to overrule it, and set thee at large on mine own

responsibility. Furthermore, I will lay a true report of the

matter before the Lord-Treasurer, and put a stop to all farther

proceedings.”

“Oh, thank you! thank you!” murmured Evaline.

Sir Edgar, in more courtly terms, but with the same deep feeling,

also expressed his grateful sense of Sir Walter’s kindness, and

his concurrence in his arrangements. But both his and Evaline’s

joy, in its full extent, was but short-lived; for they now

found that their intercourse with Hildebrand had no sooner been

re-established, than it was, by an unhappy necessity, to be

again interrupted. They learned that he was to set out on the

following morning for Carolina, with an expedition which, as was

shown in the preceding chapter, had been fitted out by Sir Walter

Raleigh, and only waited the presence of Hildebrand, who was its

commander, to make sail. Evaline, in particular, was deeply

affected by this intelligence, but she manifested her concern

only in her looks; for her voice was too much agitated, and her

heart too full, under the pressure of so great a trial, to give

her feelings utterance.

Nor was Sir Edgar unmoved by the information. To a man in his

situation, the taking away of any support, however slender,

left a vacuity, which could not but have a material and decided

influence on his fortune. Still, as neither Hildebrand nor Sir

Walter thought that there would be any difficulty in procuring

his immediate enlargement, and it was stated that the expedition

had, from a variety of causes, already been delayed so long,

that only its immediate despatch could prevent its being utterly

frustrated, he refrained from uttering all he really felt, and

restricted his expressions of regret to the ordinary limits.

The cause of Hildebrand’s mysterious disappearance, which

had afforded ground for so much suspicion and conjecture, was

explained to the knight and his daughter by Sir Walter. From

that explanation, they learned that it was not his fault, as had

seemed but too apparent, that he had quitted the Grange without

the common ceremony of leave-taking, but rather his misfortune.

A vindictive personal enemy, to whom he offered some legal

obstruction, had hired two ruffians to kidnap him; and in the

execution of this project, he had been waylaid on the evening

of his disappearance, and carried off. The place in which he

was detained, however, had accidentally been discovered by Sir

Walter, and he had enabled him to effect his escape, and thus,

for the time, to frustrate and overthrow the design of his enemy.

By the time the explanation was fully rendered, the night was,

almost without the perception of the four mutual friends, pretty

far advanced, and it became necessary to resolve on parting.

After taking leave of Sir Edgar, Sir Walter and Hildebrand

proposed that they should not part with Evaline till they had

seen her to her hostel; and their proposal, as the hour was very

late, and she felt diffident of trusting herself abroad with

only her two servants, was gratefully embraced by Evaline, and

concurred in by Sir Edgar. All things being arranged, therefore,

they set out, in company with Evaline’s attendants, in this order.

When the party reached the street, Sir Walter fell a pace or two

in the rear, and left Hildebrand and Evaline, who were foremost,

to walk on by themselves. This he did, no doubt, with the best

possible intentions, but it had not the effect he looked for on

his two young friends. It made Evaline uneasy, though she knew

not why; and Hildebrand, who had the moment before wished for

such an occasion, was confused, and knew not how to turn it to

account. Thus several minutes elapsed; and it was not till they

arrived in sight of the hostel, and Evaline had remarked that

they must soon part, that he could any way collect himself.

“Dear lady,” he then said, taking up the hand that hung through

his arm, “we part directly, and, it may be, for a long interval.

May I think that thou wilt sometime bear me in remembrance?”

“I were ungrateful, Sir, ever to forget thee,” said Evaline, with

some emotion.

“No, no, but most generous to bear me in memory,” answered

Hildebrand. “Howbeit, we are to part. Sir Edgar, methinks, has

now no cause to fear, and will be set at liberty to-morrow. But

the course of human affairs is uneven, and cannot be relied on.

If, therefore, thou hast ever occasion for a ready friend, who

can do for thee more than thou wouldst be disposed to think, let

this billet--” here he drew a sealed packet from his vest--“be

conveyed to the direction on its cover, and such a one will be

enlisted in thy service.”

Evaline, with the hand which she had at liberty, accepted the

proffered packet, but did not make any observation. Hildebrand

could not refrain from pressing her hand, which, led away by his

feelings, he still held in his, and he fancied that the pressure

was returned. But if it were, it was done so slightly, and with

such excessive gentleness, that it could hardly be felt, and

could not be regarded as any response.

At length they arrived at the hostel-door, and the light which

hung in the hall, falling on Evaline’s face, showed Hildebrand

that she was in tears. But, at this moment, they were joined by

Sir Walter, and, in a few words they both took leave of Evaline,

and turned to retire.

They passed to the end of the street in silence. There, as they

were turning into the street beyond, they encountered a squadron

of troopers, and they were obliged to press against the wall--for

there was no causeway to the street--in order that they might

have room to pass. The troopers were not long in passing, and our

two friends, having the thoroughfare again open, then resumed

their progress.

Meantime, the troop of horse, headed by a person in the garb of

a civilian, passed leisurely down the High-street, and proceeded

towards the city-gaol. On arriving thither, they drew up in its

front; and the civilian aforementioned, dismounting from his

horse, inflicted a loud and authoritative knock on the gate.

Sir Edgar de Neville was at this moment preparing to retire to

rest. Hearing a body of horse drawn up beneath his casement,

however, and a knock that made the glass ring, as if it would

leap out of its crazy leaden frame, inflicted on the gate, he

came to a pause. As he did so, a foreboding that the incident

was some way connected with himself, in reference to the crime he

was charged with, insensibly stole over him, and he waited the

issue with the most intense anxiety.

At last he heard some heavy steps on the adjacent stairs. The

next moment, the door of his chamber was pushed open, and a tall,

sharp-visaged man, habited in a suit of deep brown, and attended

by three soldiers, passed in. Advancing a few paces, he held

out a folded paper to Sir Edgar; and the latter, making a step

forward, took it from him, and drew it open. It was a warrant

from Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State, ordering him to be

removed to the gaol of Newgate, in London.