There was something in the look of Don Rafaele that made
Hildebrand’s very heart quake again. Yet it was but momentary;
for no sooner did the Spaniard, in the manner already set forth,
meet his glance, than he withdrew his observation, and turned
abruptly away. Stepping back through the doorway, he drew the
door, which he still held in his hand, close after him, and left
the lovers to themselves.
Scarcely had he thus passed into the outer passage, however,
when he heard Hildebrand’s step, which he seemed instantly
to recognise, approaching within. Thereupon, with anxious
eagerness, he looked round for an eligible opening for retreat,
and, after a brief pause, passed hesitatingly up the adjoining
stairs, in the direction of his chamber.
He had taken but a few steps, when, as he had expected, the
library-door was hastily opened, and Hildebrand presented himself
in the passage. He caught sight of Don Rafaele on the instant,
and, staying only to close the door in his rear, passed on after
him. Stepping out quickly, a few paces brought him to the stairs;
and there, though Don Rafaele had made no pause, he shortly
overtook him.
On thus effecting his purpose, he laid his hand gently on his
arm, and turned an anxious glance on his pale face.
“Thou ailest somewhat, my fair Rafaele?” he said. “Prithee what
hath moved thee to this most grievous and disconsolate look?”
Don Rafaele, without saying a word, mournfully shook his head,
and turned his eyes on the floor.
“The matter?” pursued Hildebrand, anxiously. “Come, now, an’ thou
lovest me, tell me the matter.”
“’Tis melancholy!--nought but melancholy!” answered Don Rafaele,
with perfect calmness. “The mood visits me oft, and, to speak
sooth, hath been mine infirmity, every now and anon, from my
early boyhood. Give me leave awhile, and, if I be left to mine
own self, I will be better anon.”
“God be with thee!” exclaimed Hildebrand. “Methinks, an’ thou
wouldst bear with it, good fellowship were better for thee than
solitude. But be it as thou wilt.”
Don Rafaele, with whatever motive, still desired to be left
to himself, and Hildebrand pressed his suggestion no further.
Dropping his hold of Don Rafaele’s arm, he turned back to the
passage, and suffered him to pursue his way to his chamber alone.
Don Rafaele did not linger on his route. Proceeding at a quick
pace, he shortly gained his chamber; and with a hasty step, but
agitated withal, passed to the interior, and closed and fastened
the door behind him.
Whatever might be his ailment, it would seem that his energy,
which hitherto had appeared even more than ordinary, was only to
last till he had secured himself against intrusion. Scarcely had
he turned the key in the door, when a dimness came over his eyes,
and a searching and nipping chill, like a rush of cold blood,
swept over his brain. As he threw himself into a contiguous
chair, he was overtaken by a swoon.
There he sat, helpless and insensible, with no ministering hand
to attend on him, for a considerable period. His beauty, his
virtue, his tenderness of heart, and his many noble and estimable
qualities, which had but to be revealed to be applauded, had
raised for him no barrier against the very extreme of loneliness
and necessity.
His senses returned, at last. Nevertheless, the mental anguish
that had produced his swoon (if its cause really were mental)
was clearly still alert; for, when he opened his eyes, a violent
shudder shook his whole frame. His cheeks, too, were pale and
thought-sick; his lips, colourless; and his large eyes, when
they were not turned on the floor (which was most frequently the
case), looked wild and desperate.
The sorrow that he laboured under must have been most acute,
yet, amidst all the traits of dejection that have been noticed,
he wore a look of dogged and stern resolution, which, in one so
youthful and prepossessing, it was harrowing to behold. Moreover,
he occasionally knitted his arched brows, and once, as the
paroxysm worked him deeper, he bit his lips till the blood came.
It was dusk before he was able any way to subdue his bitter
passion. Even then, though the amelioration was decided, he
manifested some traces of discomposure; and his feelings appeared
to be under a forced constraint, rather than actual and certain
control. His energies, however, were perfectly restored, and, on
rising from his chair, he turned to the chamber-door with a firm
step, and so passed out.
He did not pause at the door of the library; but pursued his way,
with the same decided step, to the family sitting-room. There, as
he had expected, he found Hildebrand and Evaline, together with
Sir Edgar, each of whom inquired after his health with unfeigned
solicitude. As the evening progressed, they strove their utmost
to arouse and inspirit him; and Evaline, in particular, though
somewhat confused on his entrance, exerted all her powers to
inspire him with hilarity. But though he sought to appear
cheerful, his mind was evidently too seriously unhinged, if one
may use such a term, to be so easily and promptly soothed; and
his present affectation of complacency was even more distressing
than his former melancholy. Moreover, he was frequently lost in
thought, and there was an apparent excitement in all he did and
said, and even in his very aspect, that was quite incompatible
with cheerfulness, and subversive of equanimity.
Thus he remained till the hour arrived for retiring to rest.
Then, having procured a light from one of the servants, he bade
his friends a hasty good-night, and passed back to his chamber.
His discomposure was greatly augmented when he reached that
apartment. Having set the light down on his toilet-table, he
proceeded to pace the floor, from one end of the chamber to the
other, with a hurried step, and with his hands clasped tightly
over his brow. His thoughts seemed to rise so rapidly, and in
such disorderly array, that he could not bend himself to consider
them, but became lost in perplexity and distraction. After a
time--but not before a good hour had elapsed--he came to a pause,
and, if one might form a conclusion from his altered manner,
made an effort to collect himself. As he did so, he suddenly
looked up; and a contiguous toilet-glass, which was standing
right before him, and which the light on the table served to
illuminate, presented to his eye the melancholy reflection of his
aspect.
A spasm passed over his face as he viewed this spectacle; and
certainly, compared with his usual appearance, or even that which
he wore but recently, it was touching in the extreme. There
was not a line of colour in any one feature, and the unnatural
lustre of his large full eyes, staring with horror, imparted to
the pallor and despairing look of his complexion a terrible and
appalling distinctness.
He cast but one glance at the glass, when he turned away; and
again, though with a slower step, and a look which, if no less
wild, was not so bewildered as his recent one, proceeded to pace
the chamber.
After he had thus perambulated the apartment for some time,
he stepped once more, at a slow and deliberate pace, towards
the toilet-table, and drew from a sheath at his side a small
stiletto. On drawing it fully forth, he held its point to one
of his fingers, as though he would ascertain, by this searching
and personal experiment, whether it were any way defective. His
inspection appeared to satisfy him of its perfectness; and, with
a trembling hand, he replaced it in its sheath.
A quiver suffused his lips as he was turning away from the table,
and he paused once more. But his hesitation, if such it were,
was but momentary, and, almost as he came to a stand, he caught
up the light from the table, and turned resolutely towards the
chamber-door.
Still bearing the light, he cautiously opened the door, and
looked out. No one was in sight; and from the stillness which
prevailed, and which was unbroken by the least sound, he rightly
conjectured that all the inmates of the mansion were now locked
in sleep. On arriving at this conclusion, he stepped out into the
passage, and proceeded, with a quick but noiseless tread, down
a contiguous flight of stairs, where a broad landing opened to
another flight. He halted on the landing, and, holding up the
light, turned his eye on a neighbouring door, which led from the
landing to an inner chamber. The chamber was Evaline’s.
The cavalier gazed on the door for a full minute, when, with a
tremulous hand, he set down the light, and softly stepped close
up to the door. Raising his hand, he cautiously lifted the latch;
and the door, which he had expected to find locked, yielded to
his pressure, and admitted him to the chamber.
Right opposite to the door was a casement, through which,
though it was partly veiled by a curtain, the moon could be
distinguished, and thus sufficient light prevailed to reveal
every object in the room. On discerning this, Don Rafaele, though
he had left his light on the landing, turned quickly round, and,
previous to taking any further step, softly closed the door. He
was now in comparative darkness, but the objects of the room
were still visible, and, when he turned round from the door,
he glanced over them all separately, and then stepped lightly
towards the bed.
The deep breathing of its occupant assured him that she was
asleep before he drew back the drapery. As he did draw the
drapery back, the moonlight--for it was on the same side of the
chamber with the casement--spread itself out before him, and
revealed to him the sleeper’s face.
He cast but one hasty look at her scarcely distinguishable
features. Then, with breathless eagerness, he silently drew down
the bedclothes, and raised his dagger over her bosom.
END OF VOL. II.
London: HENRY RICHARDS, Brydges-street, Covent-garden.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors corrected.
Period spelling retained, but apparent printing errors corrected.
Changed “crid” to “cried” on page 62. (cried Sir Walter Raleigh)
Changed “returnd” to “returned” on page 78. (returned Bernard)
Added missing “h” to “hope” on page 96. (with confidence and hope)
Changed “progess” changed to “progress” on page 102. (During his
progress to the palace)
Changed “scarely” to “scarcely” on page on 113. (They had
scarcely begun to make good way)
Changed “happnd” to “happened” on page 116. (In the name of God,
what hath happened?)
Changed “succesive” to “successive” on page 123. (For three
successive days)
Added missing “n” to “begun” on page 277. (had begun to fear thee
lost)