The darkness is often greatest just before morning. At the moment
that all hope seems to be lost, the course of events, rolling
providently on, takes a new turn, and opens a brighter and more
cheering prospect. The worst, with all its tissue of terrors, is
frequently followed close by the better; and the wave which we
expect to engulf and overwhelm us, leaves us high and dry on the
shore.
The most trying crisis is not without some assurance of
amelioration or relief. If all else fail, the nobleness of man’s
own heart, bearing him up against the tide, is a resource and
comforter. In that he is provided against all evils, and armed
against every calamity. If he properly exercise his own innate
resources, affliction can never subdue him, but will rather
serve, by its searching and varied influences, to enlarge his
intellect, and unveil the treasures of his heart.
Sir Edgar de Neville had now been a whole week a close prisoner
in Newgate. The man who had inherited from his ancestors
thousands of broad acres, teeming with produce, had no other
habitation than a small room, some dozen feet square. The bare
stone walls, black with age, were broken only by the door and
window, the latter of which was far above his reach, and, as if
that precaution were not sufficient, was defended by several iron
bars. A pallet-bed, with a table, and two settles, or chairs,
embraced the whole furniture of the room, and served but to
render its nakedness more apparent.
He was a prisoner! As he paced the narrow limits of his cell, and
found himself, after a few brief strides, brought abruptly to a
halt, he felt as though he could tear down the stone walls with
his hands, and thus sally forth. The window aforenamed, though
small, admitted a free current of air; yet, whenever he thought
of his situation, he felt as if he were stifling, and could not
draw his breath. If he sat down, he became eager for action; if
he sought relief in exercise, his humour changed; and while he
had yet, in obedience to one prompture, taken but a turn or two
round the chamber, his restlessness forced him to his seat again.
Thus did he pass the first day of his incarceration in Newgate.
Night brought him no relief; and though, as the hour advanced,
he stretched his limbs on his humble pallet, he never thought of
disposing himself for sleep.
If he turned from the more immediate details of his situation,
his extended reflections, though more varied, were not less
distracting. His fair child was alone in the world. There was
no one to prompt her inexperience; no one to defend her from
aggression; no one, in her own sphere of life, with whom she
could “take sweet counsel,” and maintain the relations of a
friend.
In his sympathy for his daughter, his own situation presented
its most pressing hardship. He could have borne it alone: for
conscience sake, he could have sustained persecution, have
submitted to oppression, and have uttered no complaint. But to
be torn from his darling--his dear, loving child--was more than
nature could endure.
The promised support of Sir Walter Raleigh did not inspire him
with much expectation. It is true, he hoped, but doubtfully; and
the varying humour of his reflections, rolling back into the
past, and calling to mind all the grievances which the followers
of the Romish persuasion were subject to, represented succour
from a pillar of the Protestant church to be extremely uncertain.
Sir Walter, too, was involved in the intrigues of the court; was
an aspirant to royal favour; a partizan of particular interests;
and, more than all, an avowed and approved enemy to the very
existence of Popery.
Hildebrand was gone. On him, indeed, if the past could be relied
on, he might have placed dependence; but he was beyond recall.
It might have been so ordered wilfully. Hildebrand, with all
his seeming honesty, might be a malignant impostor, suborned to
betray him to the Government; and, at this momentous juncture,
possibly absented himself with a perfect foreknowledge of the
evil his absence would occasion. But, no! the thought wronged
him! it could not be!
He thought of his daughter seeking to effect his deliverance.
He fancied her, under the prompture of affection, throwing off
the reserve and timidity of her nature, and pushing to his aid
through all the shuffling influences of the world. He saw her
submit to the frown of scornful authority; he observed her suing
the interference of the powerful courtier; and he traced her,
at the last, to her own chamber, supplicating the protection of
her patron saint, or the countenance and support of the blessed
Virgin. As he pursued the imagined picture, he marked her pale
countenance, her pensive eyes, and her still bosom; and though
the surface was all placid, though her sweet disposition revealed
no shade of impatience, he knew how deeply she was stirred, and
that her heart was bursting.
The following day, he learned that, in conformity with his
expectations, Evaline had sought access to him, but had been
denied. He would have written to her; but the gaoler, in a
surly tone, informed him that this would not be permitted. He
remonstrated; but, wrapped in the arrogance of authority, the
gaoler made him no reply, but passed in silence from the cell,
and secured the door behind him.
Sir Edgar now contemplated his situation in its worst terrors.
He was like one in his grave, shut out from the world, and cut
off, in every individual relation, from his suffering child! What
might not happen to her during their separation, and he, walled
in that chamber, not even hear of it! How might she not pine, how
might she not be oppressed, or how insulted; and no one be nigh
to bid her be comforted!
His own troubles, for which he had furnished no provocation, had
made him violent; but in contemplating the affliction of his
daughter, exposed to all the contumely of the unfeeling world, he
was subdued. In _her_ loneliness, he saw no resource; and as he
fancied her struggling with her fate, alone and unfriended, and
without one certain auxiliary, his eyes filled with tears.
Day followed day without bringing him relief. Each successive
morning, as its first light visited his cell, found him still in
expectancy; and each night left him still despondent. The tedious
hours were only one round of racking conjectures, which, as they
seized his attention, occasional sparks of hope, dying as they
rose, served but to confirm in despair.
Of all the ills of our brief but troublous pilgrimage, there is
none like this--the terrible agony of suspense! As its fearful
ramifications develop themselves, the horror of one thought,
which has made our blood curdle, is lost under the sting of
its successor, and each consecutive reflection inflicts a more
excruciating pang. A host of melancholy images are embraced by
one thought. Hopes and fears and anxieties, the very antagonists
of each other, seem to be banded together, and to unite in an
inroad on the prostrate heart. Each particular idea involves a
crowd of apprehensions; and the troubled spirit, endued with an
unnatural sensibility, which catches at the veriest shadow, is
overwhelmed with bewilderment and distraction.
Sir Edgar had endured this appalling mental conflict for nearly
a week. The seventh day found him quite prostrate, and almost
reckless. All hope had gone; and he looked forward to night, not
as to a season of rest, but as to another stage, which should
bring him nearer his end. When night should arrive, he would
lie down, nervous and wretched, with the same prospect as on
the previous night--a morrow of apprehension, solicitude, and
hopelessness.
While he was thus pondering on his situation, he heard his
cell-door pushed open; and mechanically--for he really acted
without motive--he looked up. As his eye fell on one of the two
persons who appeared at the aperture, its sight grew dim, and he
felt his head whirl again. But, though he was stirred so deeply,
he did not give way to his emotion, and he recovered himself in
an instant. Starting up, he caught the person referred to in his
arms.
It was Evaline!--sweet, noble, excellent Evaline! After all her
affliction--after all her terrible fears, which had wrung her
heart to the quick, and pursued her like her shadow--she was in
his embrace at last! Again she hung round his neck; again she
leaned on his bosom; and, thus embraced, was fatherless no more.
Neither of them spoke. Their hearts were too full, and, in the
overflow of joy, feeling only could reveal itself. And what
tongue, however eloquent, could have told their emotion so
forcibly as their silence? what could manifest their affection so
distinctly and clearly as its own voiceless self?
Sir Edgar was the first to speak. After a time, seeing that the
gaoler had left them to themselves, his reserve vanished, and he
gave his feelings utterance.
“My own darling Eve!” he said, passionately: “I knew thou wouldst
not desert me!”
Evaline looked up; and though her eyes, as they met his, brimmed
with tears, a smile played upon her lips, that rendered him a
sufficient answer.
“I know--I know,” said her father, in an agitated voice, yet
smiling, “thou wouldst give thy life first.”
Evaline could not speak, but she raised herself up in his arms,
and kissed him.
“Bless thee, my sweet!” said Sir Edgar, in a tremulous tone: “all
the saints bless thee!”
“And thee! and thee!” faltered Evaline, in broken, but earnest
accents.
Sir Edgar was silent for a moment; but, meantime, his eyes,
though dimmed with tears, ran proudly over his daughter’s face.
As he marked its exceeding loveliness, his discontent and apathy
vanished, and he resolved, if only to assure _her_, he would bear
up still, and assume the fortitude that he did not feel.
“And thou hast come at last!” he said. “Well, now I have thee
again, I care not what befalls.”
“Be of good heart!” answered Evaline, with more composure. “We
have a friend now, who will carry us through.”
“Sir Walter hath not failed thee, then,” returned Sir Edgar. “I
thought him noble; and right glad I am, in this eleventh hour, to
be assured on’t.”
“Alas, he is undone!” replied Evaline. “He hath lost the Queen’s
favour, and been banished the court.”
“Poor gentleman!” exclaimed Sir Edgar. “But where is Don Felix,
dear?”
“Fled to Spain,” answered Evaline. “A warrant was out to attach
him; and, fearing the issue, he took flight directly.”
“’Twas not well done to forsake thee, Eve,” remarked Sir Edgar,
mournfully. He paused a moment, and then resumed. “But, certes,
being under fear of imprisonment, his staying would not have
availed thee.”
“I needed him not,” said Evaline. “Captain Clifford, on parting
with me, gave me a billet to a friend of his, one Bernard Gray;
and he it is that got me a pass here.”
“I’faith, Captain Clifford hath befriended us well,” rejoined Sir
Edgar. “Who is this cavalier?”
“I know not,” replied Evaline, “nor what is his influence, but
he hath stood by me right nobly. He got me the pass yesterday;
but he urged me, for some reason of his own, not to use it till
to-day.”
“Well, Heaven bless him, any way, for letting me see thee,”
answered Sir Edgar. “I grieve sorely for poor Sir Walter.”
“A right noble gentleman!” remarked Evaline. “He hath well
proved the saying of the wise man,--‘Put not your trust in
princes!’ But sit thee down, Sir. I will even be thy keeper
myself to-day, and abide here till night.”
Sir Edgar smiled, though mournfully; and suffered her, as she
ceased speaking, to lead him to a contiguous seat. Drawing
the other chair near, she seated herself, without more ado,
by his side; and, with her hand clasped in his, resumed their
conversation.
“Now am I happier here with thee,” she said, smiling, “than I
could be in a court without thee.”
Sir Edgar pressed her hand. “Such love as thine, dear,” he said,
“more oft visits the prison than the palace; and, faith, it makes
this cold cell, with its walls of stone, brighter than a court.”
“And we may see fairer days yet,” rejoined Evaline. “Master
Gilbert tells me they must put thee on thy trial shortly.”
“I would I could see Gilbert!” remarked Sir Edgar. “Think’st
thou, thy new friend, Master Gray, can compass such a thing?”
“I will speak to him on’t,” answered Evaline. “An’ his means
equal his good will, he will do it.”
Sir Edgar was about to reply, when, while the words were yet on
his lips, he heard the fastenings of the cell-door drawn back,
and he paused. As he did so, the door was thrown open; and two
persons, one of whom he recognised as the Governor of the gaol,
entered the cell.
“Thou hast given us but a short time, Sir,” said Sir Edgar,
supposing he had come to part him from Evaline. “Howbeit, my
daughter will speedily be ready.”
“When she is ready, Sir,” answered the Governor, with a smile,
“thou mayst bear her company.”
“How mean’st thou?” asked Sir Edgar, in amaze.
The Governor, without saying a word, but still smiling, stepped
a pace or two nearer, and presented him with a folded paper. He
seized it eagerly, and, with a trembling hand, drew it open:--it
was an order from Sir Francis Walsingham, the Secretary of State,
directing him to be set at liberty.