How uncertain is our tenure of any one possession! We stand in
the midst of accidents, their top and vane. Constantly looking
forward, we yet hardly enjoy what is actually passing, and the
substantial advantages which we see in perspective, and conceive
ourselves almost certain to attain, often present to the grasp
only unmeaning shadows.
What prospect can be so distinctly apparent that we may calculate
on its fulfilment with unmingled confidence? However certain it
may appear at the passing moment, a few brief hours, stealing
silently and unheeded by, may render it one of the most unlikely
things imaginable. In that short interval, the auxiliaries on
which we rely, and from which our expectations mainly spring,
may be subjected to influences that will entirely change their
relations, or, should they themselves remain unchanged, they may
fail in their resources, or the onward progress of Providence may
have operated in a hundred other ways to bring us disappointment.
On the morning after Evaline de Neville had met Sir Walter
Raleigh in Greenwich Park, she arose from her bed with a
confident expectation that, by bringing her case under the notice
of the Queen, Sir Walter would speedily release her from her
present distress, and effect the liberation of her father. From
what Sir Walter had said the previous night, this expectation, on
the whole, was far from being unreasonable, and, though depending
on various provisos, offered itself to view with the assurance of
certainty. Nevertheless, one short hour had hardly elapsed ere it
fell utterly to the ground.
She had just seated herself at the breakfast-table, with Martha,
who was now her only and constant companion, seated at its lower
end, when old Adam Green, her father’s valet, entered the chamber
with a letter.
“There is a serving-man below, my lady,” he said, presenting the
letter to Evaline, “who charged me to bring thee this; but he
holds the name of the writer a secret. Master Gray is also below.”
“Bid Master Gray come to me, Adam,” answered Evaline, at the same
time accepting the letter.
Her countenance fell as she tore the letter open. It was from Sir
Walter Raleigh; and informed her, in a few cautious words, of
that person’s loss of the Queen’s favour, and forced retirement
from the court. Thus, in one brief moment, were all her hopes
blighted,--all her expectations overthrown.
After she had once learned the tenor of the letter, she hardly
retained sufficient perception to carry her to its close. As her
eye arrived at the concluding signature, she felt her head whirl
again; and, dropping the letter, she fell back in her chair in a
swoon.
Martha, who had been anxiously watching for the effect which the
letter would produce on her features, and, seeing her become
dejected, was preparing to console her, sprang to her assistance
in a moment. But, unused to see her so deeply moved, the fair
girl was herself so agitated, and, withal, so ignorant of what
would be serviceable in such a case, that she could do no more
than catch her in her arms, and call for more efficient succour.
Aid was nearer than she supposed. While she was yet calling out,
the door of the chamber, which was right opposite to where she
stood, was pushed open, and Bernard Gray rushed in.
“What hath happened?” he cried, with a look of concern, at the
same time springing to her side.
He needed no explanation when he had once glanced at the face of
Evaline. Without saying a word, he caught up a jug of water from
the table, and proceeded, with all the tenderness of a nurse, to
lave it gently over her temples. He watched the effect of his
application with the most intense anxiety. No one, indeed, could
have gazed on that fair face, now void of bloom and expression,
without feeling an almost equal degree of interest and sympathy.
Its surpassing beauty looked all the purer and more refined for
its lack of animation. Her black hair, falling loosely back, in
a dozen fairy ringlets, seemed almost to sparkle in its contrast
with her alabaster forehead. The long, raven fringe of her
eyelids, which, from their exquisite sphericity, were themselves
invested with a charm, was equally striking, and nearly as
fascinating as her veiled eyes. Her every feature, indeed, from
her brow downwards, still held out some attraction, which would
not have been apparent in the animation of the whole, and would
have lost its softness under the touch of expression.
Earnestly as Bernard surveyed these several particulars, his
contemplation of Evaline did not engage him so entirely, above
every other object, as to make him quite overlook the less
striking beauty of Martha. In the present disposition of that
person, this was, indeed, exhibited to the highest advantage.
Beaming with solicitude for her mistress, her pure and dazzling
complexion, rounded with the brightest red, seemed to reflect and
illustrate the amiability of her heart. Though her light-brown
locks did not offer the same contrast to the forehead that was
afforded by those of her mistress, they were still lovely, and
in perfect keeping with her complexion. The same might be said
of her eyes, which were of a deep blue, and though, from her
ardent anxiety for Evaline, now dimmed with tears, endued with a
depth and lustre beyond expression. Being so young, her figure,
though tall, was not yet matured, but its outlines were full of
promise, and revealed the most chaste and exact proportions.
This was particularly apparent in the mould of her shoulders,
which, in her agitation, had just pushed themselves above her
frock, and were thus partly visible. As they incurred Bernard’s
notice, he could not but mark, by a hasty but searching glance,
their faultless symmetry, and the grace and accuracy with which
they were turned. But his sympathies, though deep and ardent, and
now peculiarly alert, were too exclusively engaged by Evaline to
allow him to pause on Martha’s charms, and, after he had cast
a rapid glance over her person, his attention became wholly
engrossed by her mistress.
The application of the cold water to Evaline’s forehead, in the
manner described, quickly had a beneficial result. In a brief
space, she opened her eyes; and the delicate lines of colour,
which were previously quite dormant, again mounted to her cheeks.
She was still very dejected; but as her eye, on looking up,
encountered the anxious gaze of Bernard, her face became more
animated.
“All is over, my friend,” she said. And again drooping her head,
she burst into tears.
“Lady, hold thee up,” said Bernard, in a gentle tone, “and look
before thee hopefully! Was not Lazarus dead yet four days, and
locked in his grave, ere our sweet Lord came to help him?”
“Alack! alack!” sobbed Evaline.
“Sweet mistress, be of good cheer!” cried Martha, in a broken
voice.
“Sir Walter Raleigh, who, under Heaven, was my tower of hope, is
disgraced,” said Evaline. “What can we look for now?”
There was a pause.
“I’faith, I grieve as much for good Sir Walter, as for
ourselves,” observed Bernard, at length. “But stand to ’t
bravely, lady. Thy cause is not yet hopeless.”
“No!” answered Evaline, raising her brimming eyes to heaven: “we
have still a Friend above!”
As she pronounced these words, the tone of her voice, always
musical, was so soft, that it seemed to embody the soothing
influence of the sentiment, and in its full, deep cadences, to
hold out an assurance of support to the speaker’s self. Nor was
it without a very decided effect on the feelings of Bernard.
His emotion was apparent on his face, which, besides turning
very pale, looked more than usually melancholy. His eyes, in
particular, reflected this expression very distinctly, and, by
their quick but subdued light, afforded a clue to the fierce
struggle that was passing within.
“Art advised o’ that?” he said, respectfully taking up Evaline’s
hand. “Go to, then; I tell thee, thy father shall be set free!”
“Oh! that I could see him!” cried Evaline, in broken accents.
“Could I once more hear his voice, which hath so oft bade God
bless me, methinks I could even die happy.”
“Sweet lady, talk not of dying, I prithee,” said Martha, in a
faltering voice.
“Go to! she shall see him!” exclaimed Bernard. “I will about it
straight.”
He turned away while he spoke, as though he would pass to the
door. Ere he had taken a step forward, however, Evaline sprang
after him, and, laying her hand on his arm, induced him to pause.
“Whither goest thou, Master Gray?” she asked, with deep
earnestness.
Her trembling hand rested on his arm as tenderly as it might
have clung to a brother’s. Her pale face, lit up with a sudden
animation, was pushed round before his; and her eyes ran over his
features with the most intense anxiety. A deep flush spread over
his countenance, and, with a slight but abrupt effort, he threw
off her grasp, and broke away.
“Anon, anon,” he said, in a thick voice.
Without looking round, or uttering a word more, he stepped
hastily to the door, and passed out of the chamber.
After he had closed the door behind him, he resumed his progress,
and proceeded down the stairs to the hall. Thence he pursued his
way to the street.
On reaching the street, he pushed forward again, and did not
abate his pace, which was remarkably quick and vigorous, till he
had passed through Temple-bar. Here, though the road was more
open, and the passers-by offered much less opposition to his
progress, his pace gradually slackened; and he seemed to be lost
in a maze of thought.
Remorse had come upon him at last. The true goodness of his
nature, which a pursuit of retaliation had so long pressed
under foot, was no more to be dormant; and a voice rang in his
ear--“Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord!”
Evaline’s pale face still confronted him. He had gazed on it
often before; and the inward sorrow that it had revealed, more
touching in its calm look of endurance, had invoked his deepest
sympathy. Now, however, its influence had sunk deeper; it had led
him to look at himself; and, on the unveiled tablet of his own
conscience, he found the deed recorded that had covered Evaline
with affliction.
In vain did he seek to justify himself, by recalling to mind,
in all their hideous and infernal frightfulness, the appalling
abominations of the Popish reign of terror. Still a voice within
denounced his pursuit of retaliation; the Divine commandment,
to “return good for evil,” which he had previously hardly ever
thought of, still thrust itself before him; and he writhed under
the whispers of his accusing conscience.
His strong frame was convulsed with the violence of his inward
commotion. For years he had had but one object; almost his whole
life, since he had been able to exercise his judgment, had
been devoted to one all-engrossing pursuit; and he had had no
thought, no hope, no wish, but for vengeance--vengeance which
should know no scruple, and spare neither age nor sex. If he
had ever paused--if the tenderness of his earlier disposition
ever revived, and sought to interpose--the image of her he had
loved, and whose beauty, excellence, and piety, unmoved by a
thousand distresses, had only seemed to excite more fully the
enmity of her Popish persecutors, rose up before him; and he
cast all pity aside, and called for vengeance still. But in the
last sad, patient look of Evaline, his long-departed mistress,
far from urging him to avenge her, had seemed to appeal to him
in Evaline’s behalf. It was the self-same look that he had so
often adored on the lovely face of Dame Clifford. It showed that,
though a Papist, Evaline was equally loveable; that she was
endued with the same noble endurance, the same deep sensibility,
and the same ardent affections. His heart, which had so long
disdained the restraining scruples of pity, turned cold at the
reflection, and all its native tenderness revived.
When he averted his head from Evaline’s appealing look, a project
had occurred to him, without premeditation or forethought, by
which he might bring her troubles to a happy issue. Though
it threatened danger to himself, he resolved on it without
hesitation, and forthwith hastened to carry it into effect.
After he had passed through Temple-bar, his pace, as has been
observed, gradually slackened, but he did not come to a halt.
Still moving on, he came to Somerset House, and thence pushed
forward to the Strand.
A short distance past the entrance to the Savoy, or western
sanctuary, he broke off from the Strand, and turned down towards
the river. The road lay between two walls, in one of which, on
his right hand, and about half-way down the road, there was a
gateway, opening into an adjoining garden. On coming before
the gateway, he seized the handle of a contiguous bell, which
protruded from an indenture in the gate-post; and proceeded, with
a steady hand, to draw it forth.
Just within the gate, on one side of the avenue on which it
opened, was a small lodge, from which his summons quickly drew
forth the vigilant porter.
“So, soh!” cried that functionary, in a pompous voice, as
he cast a contemptuous glance at Bernard’s somewhat worn
habiliments: “who have we here?”
“Is my Lord Burleigh abroad yet, master?” asked Bernard, without
deigning any answer to his inquiry.
“Oh!” said the porter, opening his hands and rubbing them
together: “Ah! truly!”
“Thou wilt have no fee from me,” pursued Bernard. “See here!”
And thrusting his hand within his vest, he drew forth a slip
of paper, and held it under the porter’s eye. Glancing at the
unfolded paper, that person, to his great dismay, read thereon
these words:
“The bearer is in my employ.
“W. BURLEIGH.”
His whole manner altered in a moment.
“Fair Sir,” he said, in a fawning tone, “my Lord is up, but not
abroad yet. Wilt please thee to enter, Sir? I will have thee
conducted to his presence incontinently.”
Bernard, without a word of reply, pushed through the gateway,
and passed up the avenue towards the house. The porter followed
him, but, on their arrival before the house, passed to the front,
and led the way into a spacious hall. There, as he expected, he
encountered one of the household servants, whom he charged to
lead Bernard to their master.
“Tell my Lord that one Master Gray would speak with him,” said
Bernard.
The servant, warned of Bernard’s influence by the recommendation
of the porter, and awed by his authoritative bearing, promised
compliance, and passed to his master’s presence with that view.
In a few minutes he returned, and informed Bernard, in the same
respectful manner, that his master would see him, and waited his
approach in an upper chamber. Bernard, with a taciturnity not
unusual to him, and which he maintained on the most inopportune
occasions, signed to him to lead the way; and thus instructed,
the servant marshalled him up the stairs to the minister’s
closet. There, stepping back to the gallery without, he left him
and the minister to themselves.
That sagacious personage, from whatever cause, took no notice of
Bernard’s respectful salute, although, from his very first entry,
he fixed his eyes on his face with apparent interest. His gaze,
however, though it was prolonged beyond his wont, had no effect
on the pale features of Bernard, and he met it perfectly unmoved.
Whether his insensibility, or, to speak more accurately, his
unconcern, satisfied the wily premier, or because he had gazed
his fill, he dropped his glance after a while; and signed to
Bernard to possess himself of a neighbouring chair.
Lord Burleigh was never disposed to say more than was absolutely
necessary. On the present occasion, he was not disposed to say
anything; but intended, in the first place, to allow Bernard
to deliver all he had to say, and, when he was master of his
business, regulate his demeanour as circumstances might dictate.
Bernard, however, knew him too well to be thus entrapped; and,
remaining silent, the minister was ultimately compelled to speak
first.
“Well,” he said.
“I am glad on’t, my Lord,” answered Bernard.
There was a pause.
“Hem!” said Lord Burleigh.
Bernard looked up, but continued silent.
“There is a rumour of a new plot toward,” said Lord Burleigh.
“Hast thou heard aught concerning it?”
“Thou knowest I have not been an idler, my Lord,” answered
Bernard, “and have well earned the small allowance thou makest
me, and which thou hast thyself oft wanted to double. Moreover--”
“Good!” exclaimed Lord Burleigh, testily. “But the matter!”
“Thou wilt doubtless recollect, my Lord,” pursued Bernard,
“that ’twas I first informed thee of the great conspiracy in the
North, which cost my Lord Westmoreland his head. Afterwards, I
told thee of the plot to wed the Duke of Norfolk to the Queen of
Scots.”
“Well, well,” muttered Burleigh.
“Did not I refuse the rich guerdons thou wouldst have dealt me,
my Lord, and give all my pains for nought?” asked Bernard.
“Thou didst so, and thereby approved thyself a right loyal
subject,” said the minister.
“I say nothing, my Lord, of the early tidings I gave thee of my
Lord Leicester’s marriage with my Lady Sheffield,” continued
Bernard, “because I sought therein to gratify your Lordship,
rather than serve the state.”
“What doth all this preface portend?” demanded the minister, in
an abrupt tone.
“Thou hast thyself said, my Lord, that I have approved myself a
right loyal subject,” answered Bernard. “Thou knowest, too, that
I have served the state, not for gain’s sake, but oft at mine own
proper cost, out of pure love. Will it be ever thought, then,
that I, having these merits, would seek your Lordship’s ear for
one of the state’s enemies?”
“’Twould never be so thought by me,” replied Burleigh, less
impatiently.
“There is now in Newgate, my Lord, on a state warrant, one whom I
know to have done no crime,” said Bernard. “I would humbly sue to
your Lordship, on the strength of my good services, that he may
be set free.”
“Innocent, is he?” returned Burleigh. “Well, I would not deny
thee a small thing. How doth he name himself?”
“Sir Edgar de Neville,” answered Bernard.
The minister’s brow darkened. “Ah!” he cried.
Bernard, looking up, met his scowl with an unruffled brow, but
ventured no reply.
“Innocent, is he?” reiterated Burleigh. “These are bold speeches,
Master Gray. Why, the man hath murderously slain one of thy
fellows, is bound up with the Spaniard, and, to crown all, is a
pestilent Papist. I have this on the word of--”
“A rank knave, my Lord,” said Bernard, seeing him hesitate to
name his authority: “even of Master Shedlock, his inveterate
enemy.”
The enlarged observation displayed by his answer, showing that,
wherever he might be placed, his eyes were always on the alert,
was far from drawing upon him the minister’s displeasure. Indeed,
it reminded him how serviceable he had been to the state, and to
himself personally, in time past, and determined him to retain
him in his service at whatever cost. Unfortunately, however, the
charge against Sir Edgar de Neville was of so serious a cast,
and had been urged with such an appearance of truth, that it
could not be dismissed without a full investigation; and though
policy and state-craft inclined him to comply with his emissary’s
request, his sense of justice, which he rarely disregarded,
forbad him to interpose, and suggested that he should allow the
law to take its course. But on one point he was resolved, and
that was, that, come what might, he would in no case offend his
emissary.
In this frame of mind, he shortly replied to that person’s
remark.
“I knew not Master Shedlock was a knave,” he said, “but rather
thought otherwise, seeing that, from whatever cause, he hath
acted with much zeal in this matter, professing it to evidence
a new plot. But even an’ he be what thou call’st him, how doth
that, which concerns only him, certify the innocence of the
prisoner?”
“The prisoner, my Lord, says that he was journeying peaceably on
the highway, when he was wantonly assailed by two armed men,”
answered Bernard. “While he was beating these men back, there
came that way a certain traveller, who, seeing him hard pressed,
straight rode up to his succour. By this cavalier was the man
deceased put to the sword; and the other, without waiting a
further issue, thereupon made off.”
“Wherefore, then, hath this cavalier, whoever he be, not been
brought forward?” asked Lord Burleigh. “Hath no one any knowledge
of him?”
“He is well known to Sir Walter Raleigh, my Lord,” replied
Bernard.
“Ah!” said Burleigh, knitting his brows.
Bernard was silent.
“’Tis a most strange story,” resumed Burleigh, after a pause.
“Could not this doughty cavalier, who slew one ruffian, arrest
the other?”
“An’ that ruffian were produced, would the knight be set free, my
Lord?” asked Bernard.
“Of a surety he would,” answered Burleigh.
“Then, my Lord, I am he,” said Bernard.
Lord Burleigh drew back. If he were displeased at Bernard’s
audacity, his displeasure, in the first instance, was lost in
his surprise; and, for once in his life, he was unprepared to
express his sentiments. Nevertheless, he was too accustomed to
restrain and repress his feelings, on occasions more trying than
the present, to be thrown off his guard; and as he desired to
meditate before he spoke with Bernard further, he determined to
dismiss him till the following day.
“Come to me at this hour to-morrow,” he said. “We will then talk
further of the matter.”
“I commend me to your Lordship’s kind thoughts,” said Bernard.
“Meantime, as I take all the blame of the outrage to myself, I
would pray your Lordship to do me a grace therein so far, as to
suffer the innocent prisoner to be visited by his daughter.”
The minister hesitated a moment. Then, with more composure, he
caught up a slip of paper from the table, and, laying it down
before him, proceeded to write thereon. After he had crossed
it with a few lines, he folded it in the form of a letter, and
(for he had wax and a lighted taper ready at hand), sealing it
up, superscribed it to the Governor of Newgate. This done, he
presented it to Bernard.
“Here is a pass for her,” he said. “And remember thee,” he added,
in a significant tone, “thou art in great peril thyself. No more!
we will talk on’t to-morrow.”
Bernard, thus admonished, made no reply, but accepted the letter
in silence. Thrusting it into his vest, he dropped a humble bow
to the premier, and turned from the chamber.
Having passed out of the chamber, he did not linger without, but
pushed forward, under the guidance of the servant, who was in
waiting there, to the hall, and thence to the street.
The bitter passion which he had felt on entering the mansion
of the minister, as described heretofore, had passed away, and
his heart was weighed down no longer. Indeed, he felt more
cheerful and composed than he had been for many years. He was
still melancholy, but his melancholy was more rational, and
less despondent, and nearer to that which arises from ordinary
causes, than was its wont. The world seemed to open to him a new
and more material sphere. The cloud that had so long pressed on
his spirit, overshadowing and distorting every perception, was
now dispelled, and, in the light which it unveiled, he discerned
every individual object in its own proper colours.
Nevertheless, he was not altogether free from anxiety. It
is true, he felt comparatively easy concerning Sir Edgar de
Neville, as he conceived, however prematurely, that he had quite
cleared that personage from the crime and purposes imputed to
him. But in achieving this vindication, on which he raised such
a promising and felicitous perspective, he had brought great
danger on himself. Though he had rendered Burleigh such important
services, he was not so sure that, in a case like the present,
they would receive that consideration which was necessary to
his safety, as to feel perfectly confident respecting the
issue. But if, in this respect, his solicitude was painful, the
consciousness that it was the effect of an act of reparation was
soothing, and, in the “exceeding great reward” of an appeased
conscience, he was strengthened against the evil of the impendent
consequence.
Returning by the same route that had led him to the mansion, he
walked at a quick pace till he came to Fleet-street, when, with
whatever view, he suddenly adopted a slower step. But he did not
pause; and in a short time, passing steadily along, he arrived at
Evaline’s lodging.
This tenement, which was distinguished by the sign of “The Three
Compasses,” was a cutler’s shop; but, besides the entrance to
the shop, there was a private door, which was appropriated
exclusively to the fair lodger. It was before the latter door
that Bernard came to a halt; and a cumbrous clicket, or knocker,
just above its lower panels, enabled him to inflict thereon a
summons to the inmates.
The door was shortly opened, and Adam Green, the old valet,
presented himself at the aperture.
It will be remembered that Adam was the servant who, as was
set forth heretofore, had assisted Sir Edgar de Neville in his
contest with the robbers, and had afterwards named Bernard as
his adversary on that occasion. Although a great alteration in
Bernard’s appearance, and the friendly relations which were
maintained with him by Evaline, with the earnest zeal which he
invariably manifested in that lady’s service, had since led him
to refrain from reiterating this assertion, he did not feel
assured that it was wholly unfounded. His suspicion, indeed,
though he was silent, occurred to him often, and time rather lent
it confirmation, than wore it away. On the present occasion,
Bernard’s disordered manner, which his haste and agitation had
led him to overlook, reminded Adam so forcibly of the bearing of
his adversary in the affair of the robbers, that his suspicion
burst all restraint, and he quite started under its resistless
pressure.
Bernard, though he had observed him closely, took no notice of
his embarrassment at the moment; but first passed into the hall,
and closed the street-door.
“What ails thee?” he then demanded of Adam.
“Art thou he?” inquired Adam, in reply.
“No other,” answered Bernard, calmly.
“What brings thee here, then?” asked Adam, passionately. “Hast
thou not harmed us enow?”
“Hold thee there!” answered Bernard. “I have repented me. As
thou keepest peace in this matter, so shall it be measured to thy
master. Will that content thee?”
The eyes of the aged domestic filled with tears, and a look of
anxious indecision, which was even more distressing than his
tears, crossed his pale face. Bernard was moved.
“’Fore God,” he said, catching up Adam’s hand, “I am true, old
man! Mark thou how it will end!”
Adam looked up, and, raising his hand, devoutly crossed himself.
“So God deal between me and thee, as thou art true or false!” he
said, in an agitated voice. “But no more now, Sir! My mistress
hath been asking for thee earnestly.”
“Lead the way!” answered Bernard. “I have that for her will make
her glad.”
With a quick step, the old man, now quite composed again, led the
way up the stairs, and shortly brought him to Evaline’s presence.
She was sitting exactly as he had left her, with Martha, still
seeking to cheer her, at her side. They both rose, however, when
he entered, and Evaline gazed inquiringly in his face.
“God be with thee, lady!” he said, with a smile. “What wouldst
thou have?”
His smile, and the tone in which he spoke, which was more
cheerful than his wont, brought a flush of animation to Evaline’s
face, and the look of inquiry that she had fixed upon him became
more intense.
“Thou hast heard somewhat, Master Gray,” she said. “Is Sir Walter
Raleigh at large again?”
“I fear me, no!” answered Bernard. “But be of good cheer, fair
mistress. I have brought thee a pass to visit thy father.”
And, with another cheering smile, he drew forth the letter which
he had received from Lord Burleigh, and placed it in her hands.
As Evaline accepted the letter, her small white hands, though
they clasped closely over it, quivered like aspens. Drawing the
letter to her heaving bosom, she raised her eyes towards heaven,
and burst into tears.