It was in the same month of January, and on a morning equally
fair with that which opened our preceding chapter, that Evaline
de Neville, and her father, Sir Edgar, having just finished their
morning meal, were seated together in a commodious chamber, on
the upper floor of Neville Grange. A light frost was in progress;
but a fire blazed in the andirons, under the large chimney,
that communicated a comfortable degree of warmth to every part
of the room. Surrounded by this influence, the two inmates of
the chamber, though seated some distance from the fire, were
perfectly at their ease, and seemed to be no way sensible of the
cold without.
Sir Edgar was reading, and, from the smile that, every now and
then, suffused his lips, the work he was perusing appeared to be
a light one. Evaline, like an assiduous housewife, was engaged
in working some embroidery, and her ardent mind was labouring as
earnestly with varied threads of thought.
Her appearance had undergone a great alteration during the last
few months. The outlines of her exquisite person, as she sat
erect in her chair, looked more matured, and revealed the most
bewitching traces of female loveliness. Viewed separately, the
mould of each limb, in its turn round, presented some unexpected
attraction, and, while it lay perfectly still and motionless,
was yet more charming from its look of life and elasticity,
than from its numberless graces. Not the least of these lay in
the uninterrupted accuracy which was followed by the outline
of her whole figure. In pursuing this, the eye expected, as
an ascertained consequence, each successive and varied turn,
and followed the _contour_ spontaneously through every line.
But no eye could glance at her fair shoulders and neck, falling
imperceptibly into the upper region of her bosom, which was just
visible above the frilled edging of her bodice, without making
an admiring pause. Here the very _beau ideal_ of proportion,
marked with a hundred beautiful shades, was displayed in full,
and, withal, was so bright and lively, that one could almost see
the animation that it protected and veiled over. The delicate
rounding of her chin wooed the gaze on further; and in her fresh
and dazzling complexion, yet only relieved, not overcast, by
various touches of thought, and teeming with health and buoyancy,
opened to view a still more captivating object. Her large, deep
eyes, beaming with tenderness, yet pregnant with reflection,
seemed to shed over it actual and distinct rays, and to crown
its bloom with an atmosphere of light. The soft, mellow tint,
that, like “the red morning,” surmounted her cheeks, looked
deeper than the skin, and, in its fulness of thought and feeling,
led one to dive to the heart, to which, in pure truth, it was
a mere tributary. Nor did the arch of her brows, or the long,
glossy fringe of her eyelids, though of the deepest black, impair
this effect; but rather served, by their varied colouring, to
heighten and confirm it. Her luxuriant black hair was yet hardly
dressed, and was pushed behind her small ears, on to her neck and
shoulders, in numberless light curls, that one could not regard
without the liveliest admiration.
Though she sat silent, her face, as has been remarked, was full
of thought, and intimated that the mind was busy within. Yet
there was nothing of melancholy in her aspect, or of gloom in her
reflections. The theme of her meditation, indeed, to a girl of
her age and temper, was rather enlivening:--it was love!
How often, since her return to the Grange, free from all care and
embarrassment, had she sought to ascertain whether she really
did love! How often had the fact of her pondering on such an
inquiry assured her, on a moment’s consideration, that her love
was beyond all dispute! Love!--she had no thought, no hope, no
feeling, apart from the tender relations of her position, that
was not inseparably associated and bound up with the one ardent
and absorbing passion!
And to whom had she thus surrendered the deepest and most
precious sympathies of her nature? How earnest must have been
that suit, how persuasively eloquent that plea, that could win,
in so short a time, such a priceless treasure!
No plea had been urged; no suit had been proffered; and all was
placed on the die, on which depended the tenor and interests of
a life, on mere hazard! She loved; she surrounded her love with
all the sweet sensibilities of her nature; she clung to it as to
life; and yet, in plain reality, it had sprung up unsolicited,
and might wither unmourned.
She never thought of this--not once! Her passion had risen
insensibly, and, when it incurred notice, it was too hopeful--it
was too headlong, to be arrested. She rather discerned it
with pleasure; and with all the confidence and tenderness of
innocence, which judges the motives of others by its own, and
has no notion of the frauds and deceits of the world, nursed and
buoyed it up.
She never doubted that Hildebrand--for it was that person she
loved--reciprocated her attachment. The tones of his voice, his
looks, and even his sentiments, viewed together, and with a close
and searching eye, evinced his love distinctly. It is true, she
had not thought so at the time; but that, she imagined, in the
innocence of her confiding nature, was because she was not on her
guard, and consequently, had not given them particular heed. She
did not know, or, if she knew, she did not bear in mind, that a
partial eye might attach to this evidence too much importance;
that she might recall Hildebrand’s voice in other tones than it
had adopted; and give his looks, on which she dwelt so fondly,
more force and meaning than they would warrant. If she did fall
into such an error, she never once gave it a thought; but, with
all the earnestness of her passionate and ardent nature, clung
only to the bright hopes it raised, and the flattering prospects
of which it was the fount.
Poor thing! she had no conception of the hypocrisy and knavery
of the treacherous world. And, to say the truth, her ignorance
of its usages, in purely moral matters, might well be excused.
What possible motive could any one have, when no way offended
with her, in stealing her affections, and then casting them to
the winds? Surely, no one could find enjoyment--no one could feel
any pleasure--in inflicting on an unoffending fellow-creature
so foul a wrong! It was an outrage on the divine sensibilities
of nature to suppose such a thing. For one of her own kind to
seduce her every thought, to take possession of her every hope,
to impress himself on the deep springs of her immortal soul, and
then, in return, to cast on her an eternal blight, which should
make solitude a torture, society a desert, and life a burden,
was quite beyond the utmost verge and limit of apprehension.
Hildebrand was, to all appearance, noble, frank, and humane:
how could she suppose that he was capable of such enormous and
motiveless turpitude?
The only fear that her love ever dwelt upon, when reviewing its
various expectations, referred to Don Felix di Corva. It is true,
that person was not at present in England; but her father,
being now under no apprehension for his safety, had written for
him, and he was expected at the Grange every day. It cannot be
denied that she looked forward to his return with no feelings of
pleasure. On consideration, however, she did not apprehend that
her father would insist, beyond a certain limit, in carrying
out his project of uniting her to him in marriage. Her fear,
therefore, after all, was but a slight one, and no way arrested
the ripening fulness of her love.
The anxious moments that the timid tenderness of her disposition
founded on Hildebrand’s absence, though not few, were but
short-lived, and sank and dispersed under the influence of
her expectations. Her sanguine mind dwelt more on the hope of
fruition, than the possibility of disaster; and though, in
her solitary moments, she often pondered on the dangers which
she imagined Hildebrand to be exposed to, and the hazardous
character of his profession, it was always with a hopeful eye,
and a confident belief that he was equal to any emergency that he
might have to encounter.
She was pondering on his position at the period which opened this
chapter, and, as she thought over the several causes of anxiety
which she supposed it to embrace, a low sigh, that broke from
her--perhaps, unconsciously--showed that he carried with him her
fullest sympathy. The sigh reached the ears of Sir Edgar, and,
dropping his book, he looked up, and gazed inquiringly on her
face. Before he could make any remark, however, his attention was
drawn to the chamber-door, at which his valet, old Adam Green, at
this moment presented himself.
There was a smile on the old man’s lip, and a flush on his face,
enforcing and supporting his smile, that announced him to be the
bearer of more than ordinary tidings.
“What news, Adam?” cried Sir Edgar.
“Captain Clifford, and another cavalier, named Don Rafaele, are
in the hall, your worship,” answered Adam.
Both Sir Edgar and Evaline sprang to their feet directly.
Evaline, however, was so much agitated, though purely with her
excessive joy, that she was obliged to sit down again, and
endeavour to compose herself. Fortunately, neither Sir Edgar
nor Adam noticed her discomposure. Having communicated his
intelligence, Adam disappeared immediately, and Sir Edgar,
without looking round, passed on after him, and hastened to meet
his visiter in the hall.
Several minutes elapsed before Evaline could any way quell
the deep and exquisite emotion into which she had been so
unexpectedly betrayed. Even when her feelings were somewhat
subdued, her fair bosom, for all her efforts to restrain it,
still heaved slightly, and her face retained its glow of
unmingled joy. Before she could quite recover herself, she heard
the tread of feet approaching, and, as she hastened to gain her
feet, the chamber-door was opened, and Sir Edgar and his two
visiters passed in.
Evaline saw no one but Hildebrand. It would have been vain, if
she had striven ever so, to seek to keep her feelings under
perfect restraint when Hildebrand had once appeared. But, to
record the plain fact, she did not seek such an object--indeed,
she did not even give it a thought.
Hildebrand stepped hastily up to her directly he had opened the
door, and, as his purpose became apparent, she advanced to meet
him. In a moment, they had clasped hands, and greeted each other
with undisguised cordiality.
Scarcely had the two young friends (for in that relation we must
still view them) thus interchanged their greetings, when Sir
Edgar stepped forward with Don Rafaele.
“I’faith, Eve,” he cried, in Spanish, “thou hast so overlooked
me in the instance of Captain Clifford, that I am half minded to
play the chamberlain no further. Howbeit, out of regard for thy
maiden estate, I will even pursue mine office, and here commend
to thee Captain Clifford’s friend, and henceforth ours--Don
Rafaele.”
“I give you welcome to England, fair Senhor,” said Evaline, to
Don Rafaele.
The young Spaniard, who now seemed to have discarded his
light and graceful bearing, and to have assumed all the rigid
stateliness of a Castilian grandee, returned a formal answer,
and showed no desire to speak further. But, well aware of the
reserved manners that prevailed in his native country, Evaline
was not surprised at his demeanour, but supposed it to be
no other than he maintained usually. His apparent coldness,
therefore, no way embarrassed her, and, in the excitement of the
moment, it was unnoticed by Hildebrand and Sir Edgar. The latter
person, indeed, soon drew Don Rafaele a little on one side, and
engaged him in conversation with himself. Hildebrand and Evaline
were thus left to discourse apart.
They had much to tell each other; at least, Evaline, in the
fulness of her confidence, had much to tell Hildebrand, and
much to ask of him in return. And, in telling him all that she
had suffered during his absence, she sought not to talk of
herself, but to show, by her fervid and delicate expressions, her
gratitude to him, and how his services were fixed and rooted in
her memory.
The account which Hildebrand gave her of his recent voyage,
though it omitted several important incidents, and forbore all
reference to her cousin, Don Felix di Corva, inspired her with
the deepest interest. As it described his perils, hardships, and
sufferings, and ended, at last, with his capture of the costly
galleon, it stirred within her the most conflicting feelings,
though they all, in the main, flowed from one source--love and
admiration of him.
Meantime, Sir Edgar and Don Rafaele, though they spoke in the
Spanish language, seemed to converse together quite as earnestly,
and on subjects equally interesting. Don Rafaele’s dignity had
evidently relaxed under the attentive courtesy of the Englishman.
Although, however, he conversed freely, he was still far from
being at his ease; and he occasionally darted glances at Evaline,
unobserved by Sir Edgar, that indicated anything but composure.
But, whatever might be his real feelings, his demeanour had
no effect on the company, and, to say the truth, was not even
remarked. The morning, consequently, passed lightly over, and
left the general harmony undisturbed.
In the afternoon, soon after the meal of dinner had been
despatched, Hildebrand broke away from Evaline, and, sallying
forth, proceeded in quest of Bernard Gray. On arriving at that
person’s retreat, however, he found that he was abroad, and, from
what he had said on setting out, was not expected to return for
several weeks. As Hildebrand had already, on the invitation of
Sir Edgar, arranged to remain at the Grange for a month, this
news did not give him much concern, and, having determined to see
Bernard before he should repair to town, he walked back to the
Grange in undisturbed hilarity.
The little circle at the mansion hailed his return with
unaffected pleasure. Their sprightly conversation, which
his absence had somewhat interrupted, was resumed on his
reappearance; their spirits acquired a new buoyancy; and, as the
hours sped fleetly on, their fellowship seemed to become more and
more confirmed.
Not the least singular feature in their intercourse was the
intimacy which appeared to subsist between Sir Edgar and
Don Rafaele. The extreme youth and extraordinary personal
attractions of Don Rafaele, though somewhat overcast by his
reserved manners, had preferred him to Sir Edgar’s regard at the
very outset; but his interest in the young Spaniard deepened on
acquaintance, and, after a very brief intercourse, increased
to attachment. Associated with his country, in respect to his
deceased wife, by a tie that he could never overlook, he was
predisposed to this feeling, and the winning appearance of Don
Rafaele insensibly led him to give it free rein. The warmth and
kindness of his manner was not without a due effect on the young
Spaniard. As his desire to please him became more apparent,
he cast off his formal dignity, and became less reserved.
Still, however, he was not at his ease, and his eyes betrayed a
restlessness and discomposure, which his utmost efforts could
hardly enable him to disguise.
No restraint of this sort existed in the bosoms of Hildebrand
and Evaline. Their intercourse, if not founded on the same
sympathies, was free and open, and full of ardent and generous
feelings. In a correspondence so happy, the day sped lightly by,
and left them anxious only for the promise of the morrow.
A fortnight passed over in the same uninterrupted harmony.
Yet, at its expiration, Evaline, it must be owned, was not
so uniformly composed, if she were even so happy, as at the
commencement of that period. It is true, while she was actually
in correspondence with Hildebrand, interchanging those social
relations which constitute one of the brightest features of
life, she was supremely happy, but her solitary moments were not
unattended by a certain degree of solicitude. She noticed that,
at times, Hildebrand’s brow was sad and overcast, and, if come
upon unexpectedly, or without some previous intimation, that he
was often taken by surprise; and, from these evidences of mental
uneasiness, she inferred that he was too seriously occupied to
think of love, even if he could ever be inspired with love for
_her_. It was not improbable, indeed, in her opinion, that he
loved another. Her fair bosom thrilled with anguish when she
pondered on such a possibility. And how often, in the dead of the
night, when every other eye was fastened in sleep, did she ponder
on it! How often and often did she ask herself, with all the
bitterness of disappointed passion, whether she had really built
her affections, and the peace and tenor of her precious life, on
the crazy foundations of a shadow!
But, as has been observed, these reflections never occurred to
her when she was in communication with Hildebrand. Then, indeed,
she had no apprehension--no anxiety: she had not even a thought
beyond the felicity of the moment.
So deep--so inconceivably ardent, was her passion, that, when its
object was really and personally present, her delight almost
made her giddy. Every look that he assumed, every sentiment that
he uttered, called up in her, on the instant, and, as it were, by
an instinctive sympathy, a silent but visible response. The very
springs and depths of her soul answered to his touch. She might
be silent, yet--so closely was she knit to him--she was speaking
in his voice, and even thinking in his breast. Every moment threw
over her a new fascination; protracted intercourse, which so
often robs society of its charm, only enhanced her delight; and,
as time hurried on, her heart fixed its whole hope and aim on her
all-absorbing attachment.
Yet she and Hildebrand were rarely together alone. Whether
walking, or riding, or within doors, they were generally (and, to
be precise in our remark, most frequently) attended by both Sir
Edgar and Don Rafaele, and almost always by one or the other.
One afternoon, however, it so happened, that those two persons
sallied out by themselves, and left Hildebrand and Evaline alone.
They were sitting in the library, and, at the moment that Sir
Edgar and Don Rafaele passed out, Hildebrand was engaged with
a book, and Evaline, more lightly inclined, was inspecting the
illuminations of a roll of manuscript. As she turned smilingly
from one illumination to another, she seemed, for a moment, to
enter into the full spirit of her pursuit, and to glance at
the antique figures with interest and curiosity. All at once,
however, she came to an abrupt pause, and looked up. A deep sigh
had broken on her ear, and, forgetting everything else, she
turned her eyes on Hildebrand, and glanced inquiringly in his
face.
Hildebrand’s glance met hers: a slight flush mounted to his face;
and a smile, though a mournful one, rose to his lips.
“What wouldst thou, fair mistress?” he asked, supposing, from the
look of eager inquiry that sat on her face, that the manuscript
she was inspecting presented some difficulty, which she sought
his assistance to unravel. “What wouldst thou?” he repeated, and,
as he spoke, he rose to his feet, and advanced to her side.
“I’faith,” answered Evaline, with affected displeasure, yet
slightly smiling the while, “now I bethink me, I will not tell
thee; for I hold thee to be scarce worthy.”
“As how?” cried Hildebrand, with some earnestness. “But,” he
added, in a low voice, “’tis true! ’tis true!”
“Now, were I a man, and of degree and condition suitable, I would
hold some question with thee on its truth,” answered Evaline.
“But, as it is, I will even impeach thee on the items of thy
demerit, and bring thee to a full confession.”
“Then, deal with me tenderly, fair mistress, I prithee,” cried
Hildebrand.
“That will I not, but with horrible anger,” replied Evaline, with
a smile. “Yet, not to enter into items, which I first purposed, I
will only accuse thee of doing wrong to two trusty friends.”
“Then, will I not confess the charge,” answered Hildebrand.
“Are not my father and my poor self thy friends, then?” asked
Evaline.
“There be few I tender so lovingly,” returned Hildebrand. “But
what meanest thou?”
“We cannot help thee, thou thinkest?” said Evaline.
“In what matter, fair mistress?”
“In the matter that moved thee to that sorrowful sigh,” returned
Evaline, in a low but earnest tone, and, at the same time,
looking anxiously in his face.
Hildebrand changed colour. “No! no!” he said:--“that is past
help. But did I sigh? Trust me, ’twas unknowingly.”
“In good sooth, it makes me sad that we can lend thee no help,”
observed Evaline.
“I pitched my every thought on a shadow,” said Hildebrand, in
a low voice. “Henceforth, the world, with its fair train of
accidents, will be no more than a desert in my regard, and life
but a dream. I am lost in it!”
“Alas!” sighed Evaline, deeply moved.
“Thou art too pitiful,” pursued Hildebrand. “Yet are those sweet
tears, which my dejection hath brought to thine eyes, most
soothing balsam to me, and more inspiring than new hope. By my
troth, they make my heart swell again!”
“That do I not credit,” faltered Evaline.
“Wilt thou credit that thou art my heart’s hope and keeper?”
asked Hildebrand, taking up her hand, and pressing it in his.
“Nay, turn not away, sweet mistress! Remind thee, thou holdest in
thy hands a human life--thy lips are to pass judgment on a soul!
But wherefore do I discourse thus? It does thee wrong, sweet
Evaline! I will”----
“Oh, hold! hold!” said Evaline, in broken accents.
“Dost thou--canst thou love me, then?” cried Hildebrand.
“Oh, yes! yes!” faltered Evaline, hiding her burning face on his
shoulder.
Hildebrand, trembling with passion, turned his arm round her
waist, and pressed her to his bosom. All his fears had now
vanished, and, in the fervid kiss that he imprinted on her cheek,
he had a foretaste of the felicity that he was yet to look
forward to.
How brief are our moments of unmingled happiness! As Hildebrand,
with the ardour and eagerness of a welcomed lover, pressed his
lips to the glowing cheek of his mistress, he thought he heard
some one open the chamber-door; and, turning quickly round, his
eye met that of Don Rafaele.