It was a fortunate circumstance for Inez, apart from any
immediate inconvenience it might have occasioned her, that
Gonzalez did not turn round from the casement at the moment he
tore back the curtain; for if he had done so, he could hardly
have failed to observe her utter bewilderment and amaze. But as
the abortive issue of his proceedings had caused some surprise to
himself, he hesitated before he turned round; and Inez had time
to subdue, in a great degree, every trace of the emotion which
had so deeply stirred her.
There was a quiet smile on her face when she again met the gaze
of her guardian. This, however, failed to convince Gonzalez that
his suspicions of her incontinence had been without ground,
though he thought it better, in the absence of any certain
evidence, to conceal those suspicions, and defer all measures
of severity till he should discover something that would excuse
them. Nevertheless, his fury was not calmed. He hesitated to
resume his attack on Inez, but it was because, during the many
years she had been under his guardianship, he had become too
sensible of her unbending spirit, and haughty and resolute
temper, under provocations less serious than that which he had
furnished on this occasion, to suppose that he would come off the
victor; and not from any feelings of delicacy or forbearance. But
the old governante, whom he could discharge from his service at
his pleasure, did not come under these protective relations, and,
therefore, he felt no hesitation in discharging his fury at her.
“So, thou old beldame!” he exclaimed, “wouldst thou bring thy
pestilent gallants into our very chambers? ’Tis well, indeed,
thou canst find them no place of resort but my house.”
“Don Gonzalez, this is past all bearing,” cried Inez, stepping
in to her confidant’s rescue. “I will put up with thy cruel
suspicions and arbitrary rule no longer. I will petition the
King, Sir, to have thy guardianship cancelled; and have my
inheritance, which thou engrossest solely to thyself, turned over
to my own hands. Come, good Amina,” she added to her governante,
“let us retire.”
“Aha! would you go plot again?” cried Gonzalez. “No, no! we’ll
no more on’t to-night. Get thee to thy chamber alone for once;
and, harkye, thou old hag!” he added to the duenna, “get thee to
thine, or I will have thee made do penance in the public streets.
Petition the King, eh?”
“Remember, thou hast been warned!” said Inez.
Uttering these words, she turned abruptly to the door, and passed
to the contiguous gallery. Here she was joined by her governante;
but before they could interchange any communication, Gonzalez
followed them, and they were obliged to separate. A female
servant, who was in waiting in the hall below, furnished them
each with a light, and, with this in their hands, they passed in
silence to their respective chambers.
But though Inez repaired to her chamber, she did not retire to
rest. Indeed, to have sought repose in the state of mind she
was in, agitated with contending influences, would have been
the extreme of folly. Yet it was not any remembrance of the
conduct of her guardian that engaged her attention. The anger and
indignation arising from that source, though deep and bitter,
was soon lost in her anxiety concerning the disappearance of
her lover. She started a whole host of conjectures, as to the
manner in which he had effected his escape, but none of them
could reduce, in any material degree, her excruciating doubts of
his safety. Whatever had been the mode of his egress from the
casement, she fancied that he could not descend from so great a
height, by his own unaided efforts, and under the disadvantage
arising from the darkness of the night, without incurring injury.
A thrill of anguish shot through her frame, as, pursuing this
train of reflection, she thought that he might now be lying
disabled on the damp ground, writhing under the torture of a
broken limb. Yet, how could she afford him any succour? how could
she even ascertain, without the cognizance and sufferance of her
guardian, that he needed succour?
She pondered on the subject till she grew distracted. At last,
after she had thought of every possible mode of proceeding, she
resolved to wait till the household should have retired, and then
search for her lover in the garden.
She did not determine on this step without some hesitation. In
making an assignation with a stranger, without so much as knowing
his name, or ever interchanging a word with him, she may seem
to have manifested little delicacy, and committed excessive
indiscretion; but, before passing judgment on her conduct, it
must be borne in mind, in reference to her being the first mover
of the assignation, that this was in accordance with the custom
of her country, and was no way singular or unusual. She invited
Hildebrand to meet her, if his sentiments were such as, on the
two occasions she had seen him, he had endeavoured to reveal
to her by his looks; and though this might not be a legitimate
favour, it was a gallantry that was every day practised, and the
bachelors of Cadiz hardly ever ventured to address a young lady,
especially when she was remarkable for her beauty, till they
received some such licence.
Though she was precipitate, ardent, and romantic, and placed
scarcely any bridle on her headlong passions, Inez had never
entertained a gallant before. It was the noble form, and fine,
manly countenance of Hildebrand, which the contrast they
presented to the persons of her countrymen rendered more than
usually prepossessing, that wakened a sense of love in her breast
for the first time. Yet it was not love, but rather a feeling
of satisfaction, if a term so cold may be used, that her charms
could win from such a cavalier the homage of his looks. She felt
gratified by his admiration; his appearance struck her with a
responsive impression; and it was this influence, more than any
other, that induced her to invite him to an assignation.
Precipitation in an affair of the heart is often attended with
peril and mischief. Inez was the creature of impulse, and, in
her correspondence with Hildebrand, all had been hurry and
action. She had not paused once. Moreover, from the moment that
she had opened a direct communication with him, the novelty and
excitement of every individual circumstance, by associating him
constantly with her thoughts, had combined to invest him with
a new interest. The expectations raised by his approach, the
feelings awakened by his first address, by their progress to her
chamber, by the intrusion of her guardian, and by his mysterious
disappearance, with the tormenting doubts which she entertained
concerning his safety, knit him to her heart, and opened to
his hand its most precious sympathies, and all its priceless
affections.
The heart may seem too lightly won that surrenders without a
struggle. Even the love that has sprung from time, by slow
and gradual degrees, and under the propitious influence of
intimate fellowship, often retains some taint of selfishness,
and acknowledges a fixed and distinct limit. But it is those
warm natures which, once aroused, abandon to their love their
every thought, that are soonest and most easily vanquished. They
might endure the vicissitudes of a slow and gradual attachment
with perfect equanimity; but the magic force of love’s first
touch, taking them off their guard, awakens in their bosoms
their deepest springs of feeling, and hurries them over every
restraint, and past every opposing scruple, into all the excess
of unbridled passion.
In the impetuosity of her nature, Inez had unlocked to her
unknown lover the inmost recesses of her heart. He was the
light and key to all her thoughts. What would have been to his
disadvantage with some, by enforcing caution, and keeping before
them the necessity of acting with prudence, pleaded to her in
his favour; and her very ignorance of his name and station made
her look upon him with a more ardent and passionate interest.
At length, the silence that prevailed, and the lateness of the
hour, which was now past midnight, led her to suppose that the
household must all have retired, and she proceeded to put in
execution her purpose of visiting the garden. Softly opening her
chamber-door, she looked out into the gallery, and found that the
lights in the hall below had been extinguished. Nevertheless, she
was afraid to bring her own light forth, and she set on her way
in the dark.
Wrapping her mantilla tightly round her, she pressed close to the
wall, and proceeded, with a light but quick step, to descend to
the hall. She soon reached the bottom of the stairs, and, with
a beating heart, groped her way to the rearward door. It was
very dark, but, from long familiarity with the building, both by
night and day, she knew where to tread, and she made out the
door without difficulty. She raised her hand to draw back the
bolts; but, to her surprise, she found that, either from neglect
or accident, these were not secured, and the door had been left
unfastened.
It was not without some qualms of fear that Inez looked out on
the pitchy night. The rain was still falling, though not with any
force, and the light showers drew from the foliage of the trees,
as they fell upon it, a distinct vibration, that gave to the
prevailing darkness an unearthly terror. But her apprehensions
of peril from fellow-mortals, which her venturing out alone at
so late an hour might well inspire, repressed any superstitious
fears in the bosom of Inez, though they rendered her equally
timid and irresolute. After a brief pause, however, her decision
returned, and, drawing the door close after her, she passed out.
Without the door, there was a stone landing, guarded on either
side by an iron rail, which led down a flight of steps to the
garden. Above the landing, on a level with the top of the door,
was a sort of veranda, open at the sides, which ran the whole
length of the rails. Inez now perceived, what she had not thought
of before, that this veranda was immediately beneath the casement
from which her lover had made his egress, and she doubted not
that he had easily lit upon it from the casement-sill, and thence
leaped to the ground. A thrill of joy shot through her frame, as,
measuring the height of the veranda with her eye, she perceived
that he could do this without incurring any hurt; and the prompt
manner in which he had seized such a means of escape, when the
danger must have been yet remote, and the expediency of retreat
could hardly have occurred to him, led her to look upon his image
with more confirmed admiration.
Nevertheless, he could not have got out of the garden; for, on
his entry with her duenna, the latter had locked the gate which,
as was shown heretofore, opened into the street, and there was no
other outlet but through the house. She determined, therefore,
pursuant to her original intention, to seek him in the garden,
and lend him her aid to get clear off.
She passed on for some little time, without observing anything
to cause her the least alarm. At length, turning a sweep in the
walk, where the area was less confined, her eye took in a more
extended range, and she was able to distinguish objects more
clearly. Here, as she gazed earnestly round, her eye fell on a
large orange-tree, a few paces in her front; and she distinctly
discerned two men, muffled in long cloaks, standing against its
trunk. She turned to flee directly, but, in the hurry of her
retreat, she forgot how necessary it was to proceed with caution,
and the tread of her feet, reverberated by the wet ground, made
the two men sensible of her vicinity. One of them called to her,
in a voice which she recognised as her guardian’s, to come to a
halt, and, at the same time, prepared to give her chase. But Inez
fled at her last speed. Turning the sweep already noticed, she
came abreast of a walk which, breaking through a small shrubbery,
led to the further end of the garden; and this suggested itself
to her as a safe route for retreat. But the steps of her pursuers
were close in her wake, and the difficulty of escape, if it
depended solely on her speed, became every moment more and more
apparent. Moreover, her breath was failing her, and her energies
were, what with fear, and what with her exertions, nearly
exhausted. In this dilemma, she came to a stand, intending to
deliver herself up. As the steps of her pursuers drew nearer,
however, her desire to escape revived, and, with something like
renewed hope, she stepped out of the walk, and hid herself among
the contiguous shrubs.
Her pursuers soon came abreast of her hiding-place. To her
great terror, however, they did not pass on, but halted right
before her. She kept her eyes continually upon them, every
minute expecting to see them move away; but minute after minute
expired, in slow and melancholy succession, and they were still
stationary. Her stooping position, though relieved of some of
its weariness by the support of her hands, was growing painful;
but she was afraid to move--she hardly ventured to breathe. The
excitement was becoming intolerable, when, after an interval of
about half an hour, one of the cavaliers spoke.
“Dost think it was he?” he asked of his companion.
“No,” answered the other. “I fear me he hath got off.”
“Art thou sure he was ever here?” asked the first speaker.
“Did I not tell thee I dogged him, and the old duenna, Amina,
almost to the very gate?” replied the other.
“Thou canst hardly be mistaken, then,” said the first speaker.
“If he have escaped, ’tis through thy pestilent knave of a groom,
whom we sent, with a charge to use his utmost despatch, for the
guard of alguazils.”
The other cavalier made some reply, but it was in so low a tone,
and the rain at the moment made so much noise, that his words
reached the ear of his comrade only, and afforded no trace of
their purport to the anxious Inez. Whatever their purport might
be, however, they evidently directed them to some other quarter;
for they moved away without more ado.
Inez now breathed more freely. It was a great relief to her to
stand upright; but her tender limbs, unused to any hardship, and
cramped by her recent stooping, suffered severely from the wet
and cold. She was still afraid to move out of the shrubbery;
for she doubted not, from what she had overheard, that the two
cavaliers continued on the watch, though they had removed from
her immediate vicinity. Their brief dialogue also apprised her,
in terms too broad and distinct to be misunderstood, that they
were aware of her having received a visit from a gallant; and
this circumstance tended to increase her uneasiness, and make
her more and more melancholy. But she was somewhat assured by
the reflection, arising out of this train of thought, after she
had started all manner of conjectures, that Hildebrand had got
clear away; for if he had effected his descent from the casement
without incurring any hurt, she thought it highly improbable
that he would pause or linger in his retreat and suffer the low
wall of the garden, the only remaining obstacle, to prevent his
making off. The matter, however, was involved in uncertainty;
and her conjectures, and hopes, and apprehensions, rising one
upon another, in quick and unbroken succession, harassed her
excessively, and subjected her mind to the most exquisite pangs
of suspense.
She remained standing in the shrubbery for nearly half an
hour. Then, finding all quiet, she stepped over the parterre,
and ventured out on the walk. No one was in sight, and she
resolved, though not without hesitation, and many lingering fears
respecting the safety of Hildebrand, to endeavour to return
unperceived to the house.
She set forward with a trembling heart, but she grew more
confident as she progressed, and discovered nothing around, so
far as she could distinguish, to indicate the presence of a
single living creature. Her heart quite bounded as she arrived in
front of the house, and she mounted the flight of steps at the
door, under the shelter of the veranda, with a sense of recovered
buoyancy. Passing over the landing, she paused in front of the
door, and clutched eagerly at the latch:--the door was fastened
within.
Her head reeled again as she made this discovery; and yet, on a
moment’s reflection, she could hardly bring herself to believe
that the door was really fastened, and she fixed her hand on
the latch once more. But the door resisted her efforts, and she
tried it over and over again, sometimes with all her force, and
at others gently, but still with the utmost earnestness, with the
like disheartening result.
She was very cold, and wet withal, and her tender and delicate
frame, from the severe manner in which it had been tried, was
already fast sinking from exhaustion. How could she bear up till
the morrow? What resource was left her, in her utter helplessness
and misery, against the terrors and hardship of a night in the
open air?
In vain she pondered on her situation. The more she thought of
it, in a fruitless pursuit of some one hopeful reflection, the
greater became her misery, and the more confirmed her despair.
Nor were the great personal apprehensions that she entertained,
and which every moment augmented, the most afflictive element of
her distress; for the solitude around now raised within her a
host of ideal and superstitious terrors, far more grievous and
depressing. For some minutes she hardly ventured to raise her
eyes from the ground. The sputtering of the rain on the veranda,
a few feet above her head, made her thrill with fear; if she
sought to relieve her wearied limbs by changing her position,
either by supporting her arm on the hand-rail, or by leaning
against the door, the rustling of her drapery, whenever she
moved, turned her heart cold, and conjured up before her the most
morbid and distracting fancies.
She might have remained in this position till the morning, but,
happening to glance on one side, her eye fell on the dim outlines
of an outhouse, stretching away from the main building, only a
few yards from where she stood. This she knew to be the kitchen,
and, though she had no doubt of the kitchen being duly secured,
she recollected that there was a wood-house adjoining, in a line
with the kitchen, the door of which was fastened only with a
staple, and would, therefore, afford her ready access. Poor as
such a refuge would be, it would, in her present destitution,
still be a refuge; and it no sooner presented itself to view than
she hastened to embrace it.
Quickly descending the flight of steps, she kept close against
the side of the house, in order to screen herself in its shadow,
and pushed forward to the kitchen. On arriving before this
building, she paused a moment, and looked anxiously round. But
she could discern no trace of any overlooker, and, drawing a
deep breath, she again pressed against the wall, and resumed her
progress to the wood-house. As she passed along, however, keeping
close to the wall, she came against the kitchen-door; and,
yielding to her involuntary pressure, which its situation in an
indenture rendered more forcible, the door flew open.
A sensation of pleasure rose in her bosom at this unexpected
prospect of a comfortable retreat. Before the feeling had well
sprung up, however, it was overtaken by an opposite one; for
as she was about to avail herself of the passage afforded by
the open door, something like the rustling of drapery saluted
her ear, and she shrank back in dismay. Looking quickly round,
she fancied that she saw a shadow, which had protruded from the
deeper gloom, hastily flit back, a few yards further up the walk;
but if this had really happened, it retreated so fleetly, and
the variety of shadows thrown out by the trees and shrubs were
so perplexing, that she could not but regard it with uncertainty
and doubt. Nevertheless, she kept her eye on the spot for several
minutes, intently surveying its every outline, without discerning
anything confirmatory of her fears; and, somewhat reassured, she
turned to the door again.
Passing in, she softly closed the door, and glanced around. Some
embers of a fire were gleaming in the andirons, on the side of
the room opposite to the door, and the light they afforded,
though no more than rendered the darkness visible, served as a
mark for her steps, and enabled her to grope her way forward. As
she came up to the andirons, her dress caught in something at her
feet, and, stooping to see what it was, she found that there was
a heap of furze, or dried heather, on one side of the andirons,
ready for use in the morning. She threw a handful of this into
the fireplace; and the dim embers, revived by her breath, which
she blew upon them with all her force, mounted into a flame. A
log of wood which she found at hand, and which she laid on the
top of the furze, soon provided her with a good and cheerful
fire.
The light thus furnished enabled Inez to look round the kitchen
more narrowly. It inspired her, too, with more courage--if that
which was derived from an extraneous influence, not from any
source within, might be called courage. Still her glance was
timid and hasty, and the cheering effect of the fire, though it
rendered her situation more tolerable, had evidently not relieved
her of her many depressing apprehensions. Indeed, this very light
itself, by revealing to her the outlines of every part of the
room, soon presented her with some ground, beyond that which
sprang from her natural timidity, for her very worst fears. As
her survey progressed, she observed the door of a neighbouring
closet, on which the fire shed its full light, slightly pulled
back, as though it had been a little open, and was drawn close by
some person within. Her terror was excessive, but it was of that
kind which, by representing escape to be impracticable, impelled
her forward, and she made one desperate spring to the closet-door.
She drew the door open, and the light, pouring full into the
closet, revealed to her the person of a cavalier. But though she
started, it was not with fear, but surprise; for the cavalier, in
whom she had expected to find a ruthless enemy, was no other than
her lover.
“Is’t thou?” she exclaimed. “Come forth to the fire.”
Hildebrand, thus invited, stepped out of the closet, and advanced
with her to the fire.
“How camest thou hither, dear lady?” he inquired.
“I came to seek thee, Senhor,” answered Inez, blushing. “I was
afeard, from the manner of thy retreat, that thou mightst have
met some mishap, and be lying disabled in the garden. How didst
thou come hither?”
“It may be briefly told, dear lady,” said Hildebrand. “When
I had got me behind the curtain, in thy chamber, I found the
casement was open; and, looking out, I observed the veranda over
the rearward door, by which we had gained ingress to the house,
only a few feet beneath. Meantime, thy churlish guardian, as I
suppose him, did intrude on thy presence, and I heard him and
thee bandying high words. It struck me, on this hint, that, if
he should hap to fall on my covert, ’twould bring on thee more
particular injury; and, so thinking, I sought to get me beyond
his reach. The casement being already open, I turned myself over
the sill with ease; and the noise made by your voices, which
anger and jealousy had raised to the very highest parlance,
prevented my proceedings from being heard.”
“’Twas well we talked so loud,” smiled Inez. “But how then?”
“Clinging round the lower frame of the casement,” resumed
Hildebrand, “I dropped my feet to the veranda, and there,
standing upright, surveyed its height from the ground. It looked
a marvellous great distance, but I knew, from my experience
of such matters, that it got this look of magnitude from the
prevailing darkness; and, supposing it to involve but little
peril, I made a bold spring for ’t. My conjecture proved correct,
and I lit safely on the ground.”
“’Twas bravely done,” said Inez, unwittingly clinging more fondly
to his arm. “But having reached the garden, how was it thou didst
not pursue thy retreat?”
“By this hand,” answered Hildebrand, raising her trembling hand
to his lips, “I could not have won the street, an’ I had been
minded. I had scarce touched the ground, when a man started
out on the path before me, with something in his hand, which I
took to be a rapier. Though I was not afeard to encounter him,
I had no desire to spill blood, and, therefore, I resolved to
keep _perdu_ a while. But he was on the watch, and, whether he
suspected my vicinity, or simply sought to overlook the house,
he held his ground, and so kept me close. This wearied me, and
I determined, whatever should ensue, to set forward again. The
darkness favoured me, and, keeping close to the house, I crept
stealthily onward, and paused not till I came here. After staying
here a space, I had concluded to sally out, and, if no one should
be about, try to gain the street; but at this juncture, I heard
thy step approach, and that, of course, brought me to a stand.
Not doubting that thou wast some enemy, I looked round for a
hiding-place; and, by good fortune, espied yonder closet, where
thou didst happily discover me.”
“’Tis a downright tale of adventure,” observed Inez, with a smile.
“And I will be surety,” remarked Hildebrand, in reply, “thy
progress hither hath also been venturesome. How didst thou fare,
lady?”
Inez, quite reassured by their seeming security, did not hesitate
to meet his inquiry with a full account of her excursion, and
the thoughts and apprehensions that, according as its incidents
were favourable or adverse, or her anxiety for Hildebrand
more or less pressing, had marked its progress. Her narrative
had a deeper effect on Hildebrand, whom his recent moments of
reflection had rendered more collected, and less subservient to
the wild impulses of passion, than she supposed; and inspired him
with a more apparent interest than she had looked for. Indeed,
in its detail of risks and terrors, it exhibited such a devoted
affection for him, above what he had sought to excite, that he
could no longer regard her as a mere light-of-love, or safely
venture to trifle with her heart. The artless narration awakened
his better nature, and, by the very confidence that it placed
in him, called up in his bosom a sense of remorse, that was far
from lending a stimulant to the dictates of passion. In the
revelation of her fears and anxieties, he saw the tenderness
and deep sensibility of her amiable heart, and became aware, by
this discovery, that her character was not composed of the light
elements he had imagined, but of all the choice and sterling
qualities of her sex.
It would have been well for Hildebrand if he had paused on this
interposition of his better judgment. It would have been a happy
reflection for him, at a more advanced period of his life, that
the first compunctious qualms of his warm and generous nature had
not been unheeded, and that he had made a timely retreat from the
temptation which he had so diligently sought. But his remorse
and hesitation lasted only while he remained silent. Directly he
replied to Inez, they began to subside, and, with the renewal of
the conversation, his passion revived.
If Hildebrand betrayed such indecision under this first trial, it
may reasonably be expected, from her youth and inexperience, not
to mention the greater weakness of her sex, that Inez should be
off her guard in an equal degree. Her passion, indeed, was true
and genuine, and was becoming deeper and more deep every moment.
It was attachment--not only to his person, but to his thoughts,
wishes, and character; an interest in everything that, now or
hereafter, in any measure concerned him, and which was gradually
and imperceptibly absorbing all thought and care of herself, and
making him the leading influence of her most precious affections.
Her attachment had just attained that crisis, if we may use
such a term, at which it would be difficult, but might not be
impossible, to uproot or restrain it. Here she might pause, but
a single step more, with whatever caution it were taken, must be
decisive and final, and could never be retraced. Whether she knew
this, or not, or ever gave it a thought, she did not pause once,
but left her affections without the least guard, and exposed
to all the impressions which a fervid and sanguine temperament,
free from the least taint of selfishness, could derive from the
dangerous and very striking peculiarity of her position.
The timidity she had manifested on discovering Hildebrand in the
closet gradually wore away, and, whether from the excitement
of conversation, or the fellowship that sprang from a sense
of surrounding peril, by which they were both alike affected,
she shortly became more confident. She had dropped her hold of
Hildebrand’s arm, but had suffered him, by way of requital, to
retain possession of her small hand, which he probably considered
a greater favour. Whatever light he viewed it in, however, it
did not lead him to forget, in the pleasure of the passing
moment, that his situation was one of some danger, and that it
was expedient to make an early effort to gain the street. After
conversing with Inez for a while, he reminded her of this, and
proposed that he should now set out.
“Ah, art thou so hasty?” said Inez, plaintively. “Even thus
restless, I fear me, will be thy professed love, which will soon
wander from me, to light on some other.”
“I’faith, fair Inez, ’tis thy reproach that is hasty,” answered
Hildebrand. “But”--
“Hush!” whispered Inez, shrinking back on his arm.
Hildebrand, following her eye, glanced anxiously at the door.
Listening a moment, he distinctly heard the tread of footsteps,
and some voices, as it seemed to him, conversing in whispers. He
had hardly time to seize the hilt of his rapier, when the door
was thrown open, and two cavaliers, with their rapiers already
drawn, sprang into the room. The light of the fire, which the
draught through the open door had somewhat brightened, enabled
Hildebrand to distinguish their faces; and, to his surprise,
he recognised in the foremost cavalier an old and unexpected
enemy:--it was Don Felix di Corva.