Although the sudden and unannounced arrival of Don Felix di
Corva, described in a former chapter, had overwhelmed Sir Edgar
de Neville with surprise, that cavalier quickly recovered
himself, and hastened to bid his relative welcome. Evaline,
however, continued discomposed, and met the greeting of Don Felix
with undisguised coldness. The Spaniard affected to be insensible
of her resentment; but it did, notwithstanding, mortify him
exceedingly, and he determined to avenge himself on her at the
very earliest opportunity.
Such an opportunity was not to be afforded him that evening.
Evaline, distracted with her anxieties, which the return of Don
Felix had greatly augmented, shortly announced herself to be too
indisposed to remain up longer, and retired to her chamber. Don
Felix was himself much fatigued, and, when Evaline had retired,
he professed to have no inducement to stay up further, and also
betook himself to his dormitory. But, fatigued as he was, it was
more to pursue reflection, than to seek repose, which he had
pretended to be his aim, that he thus withdrew. When he laid his
head on his pillow, he sought rather to conjure up the past, with
all the remembrances that a malignant disposition could draw from
it, than to recruit himself for the morrow. He could not say, in
his heart, that Evaline had at any time loved him; but there was
a time when she had not held him in dislike. Who had induced her
to alter her sentiments? There, indeed, was the touch-stone,
which searched and proved his nature!
The Spaniard was not, under ordinary circumstances, what would be
called a bad man; and if no strong influences had been at work
upon him, he might have passed through life, in its even and
untroubled channels, without developing a single evil quality.
Still he was, in reality, possessed of a quality fruitful in
evil, from which springs a host of bad and furious passions,
and which is generally called by the name of “self-conceit.”
He thought he was a _nonpareil_; and so long as, by the run
of circumstances, he could appear in that character, he was
perfectly inoffensive, and rather disposed to serve a friend,
than to crush a foe. But the man that, even involuntarily, dared
to appear in his sphere to greater advantage than himself,
did him an injury that he would never forgive. Then, on being
closely viewed, the quality that had appeared more deserving
of contempt, than worthy of fear, displayed its genuine and
native hideousness. It was bared to the root, and, in its naked
colours, showed itself to be fraught with “envy, malice, and all
uncharitableness.”
Up to the time that Sir Edgar and Evaline formed the acquaintance
of Hildebrand Clifford, Don Felix had lived with those persons,
in the seclusion of the Grange, in the style and position he
desired. But Hildebrand’s appearance on the stage was to open to
him a new and less auspicious era. A few days served to show him,
by the altered bearing of the household, that he had now a rival,
and that he could not enjoy the chief place in his sphere without
a struggle. His self-esteem quailed before the many superior
attractions of Hildebrand; but the superiority that, by throwing
him into the back-ground, quite obscured his moderate resources,
excited his envy. He soon began to regard Hildebrand as an enemy;
and, as has been already set forth, seized the first opportunity
that arose, in the absence of Sir Edgar and Evaline, to provoke
him to a quarrel. The fact of Hildebrand having spared his life
on that occasion, instead of invoking his gratitude, only made
him hate him the more; and the noble generosity that was above
his understanding, he ascribed to indecision and fear.
He now saw, what he had suspected before, that he had quite lost
the affections of Evaline, who had long been promised to him in
marriage, and firmly believed that they had been surrendered to
Hildebrand. This allowed, he had to consider how, in the eleventh
hour, he could withdraw her love from Hildebrand, and transfer
it to himself. The scheme by which he proposed to effect such a
change, stupendous as it might seem, was already devised.
The morning following his return to the Grange found him astir
early. Nevertheless, he was shortly joined by Sir Edgar, who
was, like himself, of matutinal habits, and wont to be early up.
They greeted each other cordially; and Sir Edgar then, though
unconsciously, opened the way for that communication concerning
Hildebrand, which Don Felix was so anxious to deliver.
“There is a proclamation out,” he said, “that all Spaniards
in this realm, of whatever degree, are either to quit it
straightway, or to give good and sufficient surety for their
behaviours. But thou need’st not to be troubled hereat; for I
will write off to London to-day, to my worshipful friend Sir
Walter Raleigh, and beseech him to act in this matter in my
behalf, and be thy surety.”
“’Tis a good thought, and should be despatched with all
convenience,” replied Don Felix.
“Yet there will be some delay in it, I dare affirm,” returned
Sir Edgar. “’Twould be executed out of hand, an’ my good friend
Captain Clifford were here.”
“Now, God forefend, Sir, I should ever take a service at his
hand!” exclaimed Don Felix, with a show of excessive indignation.
“And wherefore not, I prithee?” rejoined Sir Edgar. “But I
remember me, on second thought, you were at discord one time.
Beseech thee, let me make you friends.”
“Never!” cried Don Felix, vehemently.
“That is a hard word, Felix,” answered Sir Edgar, in a tone of
remonstrance. “Let me not fall in thy regard, an’ I hold him
dearly still; for the evil he hath done thee--if he have done
thee any evil--cannot mete with the good he hath done me.”
“He hath done no evil to mine own self,” replied Don Felix,
“yet hath he wronged a friend of mine, whom I hold next to
thee, beyond the utmost limit of forgiveness. But to make thee
understand his guilt, I should have to unfold to thee, at more
length than thou mightst choose, its sum and particulars.”
“’Fore God, thou makest me fairly marvel!” exclaimed Sir Edgar.
“’Twere wronging him to hear thy tale; for, believe me, thy
friend, be he who he will, hath but practised on thee, and told
thee what is without truth.”
“Then have mine own eyes deluded me!” cried Don Felix. “What I
believe, they saw!”
“I’faith, thou grievest me, Felix,” said Sir Edgar. “Yet can I
hardly look ill on my friend, or do him even a thought’s wrong.
But the matter! Leaven thy tale with kindness, and be brief.”
“When I was lately in Cadiz,” said Don Felix, “I saw there one
day, prowling about the streets, a man whose favour I knew. There
was with me the dear friend I spoke of--by name, Gonzalez; and
seeing the man aforesaid walked about curiously, like a spy, we
dogged him a while. He was no other than Captain Clifford.”
“He was in Cadiz, I know,” observed Sir Edgar.
“We followed him to the chapel of the cathedral,” resumed Don
Felix, “where, to our singular admiration, we observed him to be
in correspondence with a certain fair lady, my worthy friend’s
ward.”
“This is no great harm,” smiled Sir Edgar.
“Anon!” answered Don Felix. “Jealous of my friend’s reputation, I
kept a close watch on the young Donna; and, to be brief, on the
night following, while parading round the house, I nearly ran
against Captain Clifford and her duenna, and tracked them fairly
to the Donna’s lodging.”
“An’ this be the sum of his error, ’tis only matter for a little
raillery,” remarked Sir Edgar.
“Mark me!” pursued Don Felix. “Stung with passion, I alarmed my
friend; and after a rigid search, within and without, we found
the Donna and her seducer together. My tale must now be unfolded
in few. Don Gonzalez, reasonably enraged, committed Captain
Clifford to prison. Howbeit, he had not been there long, when,
as we have been advised since, on the confession of the duenna,
he was visited by his poor victim, disguised as a cavalier. In
that guise, she enabled him to escape; and, under the name of Don
Rafaele”--
Sir Edgar started. “By God’s suffering,” he cried, “she was with
him in this house! An’ I live to see him, I will call him to
account for ’t.”
“Thou must mistake,” answered Don Felix, with affected horror,
yet really transported with joy. “He would never so affront
thee, his friend, and my fair Evaline, as to bring his betrayed
belamour hither.”
Sir Edgar was so overcome with indignation, that for several
minutes, though he strove to repress his feelings, he could not
sufficiently calm himself to reply. Then, however, he spoke at
length, and with all the bitterness which, viewing Hildebrand’s
error in the light now laid down, might be expected from a man
of honour, and a parent. Though he had yet something to say, Don
Felix, with characteristic cunning, suffered Sir Edgar to talk
himself out, when he opened to him what he deemed a more exciting
subject.
“I fear me, he hath even done harm here,” he said. “An’ it be so,
my peace, which he hath already disturbed, is utterly lost, and
’twill scarcely go less grievous with Evaline.”
Sir Edgar’s cheeks burned again. “He hath never dared to trifle
with her,” he said, in tremulous accents.
“I am much afeard he hath,” answered Don Felix.
“Go to! I will see her on the matter,” returned Sir Edgar. “I
have promised her to thee of old, and, if she tender my honour,
thou shalt have her. I will write off to Sir Walter to be thy
surety to the Government; and directly his answer comes, allowing
of thy sojourn here, you shall be wedded. Let us despatch the
letter at once.”
Writing materials were ready at hand, and, as he ceased speaking,
Sir Edgar turned to them, and proceeded to write the proposed
letter. When it was finished, old Adam Green, whom he employed
before any in matters of trust, was summoned from without, and
directed to convey it to the next post-town. Adam entered on
the errand without delay; but his retirement from the chamber,
preparatory to setting out, afforded Sir Edgar and Don Felix no
opportunity of resuming their conversation; for just as he left
them to themselves, they were joined by Evaline.
The fair girl, to judge from her appearance, had passed a
restless night; but, seeing her father look sad, she smiled
on her entry, and greeted him with constrained cheerfulness.
To please him, too, she even relaxed her bearing towards Don
Felix, and saluted that cavalier with the utmost complaisance.
Nevertheless, her assumed composure was but short-lived, and she
sat down to their morning meal, which had been waiting for her
appearance, in thoughtful silence.
As none of them was disposed to converse, much less to extend
the appetite, their breakfast sustained no interruption, and was
speedily despatched. This done, Don Felix arose; and, stating
that he had some business at Exeter, which required his instant
attention, quitted the chamber, and left Sir Edgar and Evaline to
themselves.
They sat full of thought for several minutes, when Sir Edgar, in
a low voice, and agitated withal, broke the silence.
“Evaline, I have some ill tidings for thee,” he said.
Evaline started. “What may they import, Sir?” she asked, in a
faltering tone.
“’Twill grieve thee to hear, yet must I tell thee,
notwithstanding,” answered Sir Edgar. “God give thee grace to
bear them meetly!”
“Amen!” ejaculated Evaline, crossing herself.
Without saying a word more, she waited till Sir Edgar should
unfold, at his own prompture, whatever he might have to
communicate. Though Sir Edgar had before determined what he would
say, her patient bearing so moved him, that he now faltered,
and several minutes elapsed before he could proceed. At length,
however, he opened his communication; and, acquiring more
firmness as he progressed, disclosed to her all that he had just
learned from Don Felix.
Evaline heard him to an end without interruption. Occasionally,
indeed, as the more remarkable features of his tale were
unfolded, she raised her dim eyes, and fixed a momentary glance
on his face; but she never spoke a word. She knew that it was
all true; she would have given her life--ay, her very life--if
she could even have doubted it; but it carried conviction and
reality in every single particular.
She sat in her chair like a statue--as still, as composed, and
almost as unconscious. One would have thought, from her unruffled
look, that she was indifferent to her father’s tidings--that she
was quite calm and composed; but the calmness and composure were
despair!
Her father paused when he had finished his communication,
expecting, from the hint he had received from Don Felix, that
she would swoon with grief, or, at the least, burst into tears.
Deceived by her seeming composure, however, he supposed that it
affected her only as far as, being so contrary to what she had
looked for, it shook her opinion of a lately esteemed friend;
and, under this impression, he pursued his discourse less
tenderly.
“Didst thou love this man, Evaline?” he said.
“Love him?” exclaimed Evaline, wringing her clasped hands. “O!
God! how dearly!”
Sir Edgar turned pale with surprise.
“Thou shouldst have told me this afore,” he said, reproachingly.
“He besought me to conceal it for a time,” answered Evaline, “as
he had that in view, he said, which would make his fortune equal
mine, and insure him your favour.”
Sir Edgar bit his lips, and mused a moment. He then stepped up to
Evaline’s chair, and, there pausing, took her hand in his.
“Thou know’st I have thy welfare at heart, my child!” he said.
“Right well,” replied Evaline, calmly, yet without looking up.
“And if I ask thee to do a thing I have dreamed of for years, and
which will make my last days pass lightly, wilt thou cry me nay?”
asked Sir Edgar.
“God forbid, father?” returned Evaline.
“See, then!” resumed Sir Edgar. “I have long thought to wed thee
to thy brave friend and coz, Don Felix.”--Evaline started.--“Thou
wilt not, now I am old and lonely, deny me the joy of seeing thee
happy?”
Evaline looked up; and Sir Edgar, though he had observed that his
proposal moved her, was taken by surprise at the despair revealed
in her gaze, and shrank back apace.
“My heart is breaking, father,” she said. “Do not--oh! do not
thou pain it more! Beseech thee, as thou lovest me, name not this
match again!”
“Never!” exclaimed Sir Edgar, in a broken voice. “’Tis a thing I
had set my heart on. But never care, my darling! We will speak of
it no more!”
“Thank you! thank you!” cried Evaline.
She rose as she spoke, and, withdrawing her small hand from his
clasp, threw her arm round his neck, and kissed his cheek. Then,
with a deep sigh, she broke away from him, and passed out of the
chamber.
Sir Edgar watched her till the door, closing after her, hid her
from his view, when he turned mournfully away, and threw himself
into the chair which she had just vacated. His expectations, no
less than hers, were blighted; his peace also was gone; his and
his child’s sympathies were no longer concordant.
It is a bitter thing for a parent to find an obstacle to his
heart’s desire in his own child, even when, as in Sir Edgar’s
case, he feels that his child’s opposition is perfectly and
strictly legitimate. It is as if his hand, acting on a judgment
of its own, refused to answer the call of his mouth--as if his
body disdained to be swayed by his mind. Though he may distinctly
perceive and understand, that his child sees in his command an
object of abhorrence, and may mentally bleed at her every pang,
he yet feels, in his heart, that she ought to be persuaded that
it is really a path to happiness, and embrace it cheerfully. He
may know how the idea appals her; he may commiserate and writhe
under her deep sufferings; but for all this, he still thinks, in
his moments of retirement, that her terrors are foolish, that her
sufferings are the offspring of her own imagination, and that
obedience to him would insure her happiness and fruition.
Though he had promised never again to request Evaline to accept
the hand of Don Felix, Sir Edgar found, on reflection, that
he could not tear that project from his heart, or forego its
realization, without a bitter pang. He had conceived it when they
were yet children; it had, as it were, grown on his affections,
as his affections had grown with them; and he now saw a weak and
unhappy passion, which could never be pursued, and the mere
entertainment of which was degrading, step in to oppose it. He
was to see his child wither under the breath of a villain, when,
as he thought, a career of happiness was open to her, and the
height of earthly bliss was within her reach.
The last of his house would never wed: when he should be laid in
the cold grave, he would leave in the world, in which all men
seek a memorial, not a vestige of his race. The inheritance of
a score of ancestors, improved by his care, and extended by his
economy, would pass to strangers, and he would die unmourned, and
lie in his sepulchre unremembered.
Such were the bitter reflections that passed through his mind.
And yet, in the face of these reflections, at the very moment
that his disappointment pressed upon him most severely--even
while he was thinking, every now and then, that the opposition
to his wishes was unkind and unreasonable, his paternal heart
bled for his child. He imagined her looking on the wreck of her
bright dreams of promise--on lofty hopes overthrown, and deep
aspirations stifled; and he saw her, as the ruin still confronted
her, become paralysed at the view, and overwhelmed with the
terrors of despair.
All his own energy was depressed and lost. In his inability to
sway his child, he felt as though, in reality, he was no longer
master of himself. His disposition had suddenly undergone an
entire and radical change, and he now seemed, instead of being a
man of thought and action, to be a mere creature of circumstance,
and quite at the command of any influence that might approach him.
He was still meditating on his disappointment, when he was joined
by Don Felix. That person, finding him alone, inquired the result
of his conversation with Evaline, which he knew had concerned
himself, with affected eagerness, although, if the truth must be
told, he very well understood that there was no chance of its
being favourable. Sir Edgar’s reply, informing him of Evaline’s
determination not to wed him, appeared to overwhelm him with
affliction, and, though no more than he had expected, did really
fill him with the most bitter rage. Still, however, he did not
despair of one day achieving revenge. In deference to Sir Edgar,
he forbore to press the subject at that moment, but he looked
forward, in his heart, to a time when he might successfully recur
to it, and pursue it to a triumphant issue. Even at the passing
time, indeed, he did not virtually neglect it; but by frequent
piteous sighs, and his melancholy and dejected aspect, which
beamed with pious resignation, urged his suit on Sir Edgar with
unremitted assiduity.
Meantime, Evaline had shut herself up in her own chamber. On
first entering it, she threw herself on her knees, at her
bedside; and there, leaning forward, buried her face in her
hands. And what did she pray for? Could she suppose, on looking
out on the stupendous creation, which is too vast for human
thought to review, that so insignificant an atom as she could
appeal against and arrest the course of events, and draw from
Heaven miraculous succour? What, though even the hairs of her
head were all numbered--what, though the supreme Disposer, who
planted and moved every source and spring of action, had called
himself her Father--what, though he had himself said, “Come unto
ME, ye heavy-laden,”--was it to be thought, by any sane and
reasonable being, that He would recall the past, and obliterate
realized events, on her petition?
No such thought aroused the prayer of Evaline. She prayed, not
against what could not be averted, but for power to bear what God
should dispense--not for the reduction of her burden, but for
grace and strength to sustain it.
She was somewhat soothed when she arose from her knees. But the
holy assurance which she derived from her prayer, though it
nerved her for the moment, was not lasting, and quickly sank
under her associations with the world. In time, she might be
resigned--_that_ was her hope; but now--O God! who could bear it
now?
If she did for a moment conjure up an assuasive reflection, the
bitterness of blighted passion--as if, like a stranded sea, it
had receded only to recruit its vigour--quickly rushed over her
again, and bore down all opposition. What an afflictive and
appalling spectacle did it present to her! Every hope washed
away--every bright thought overthrown--every dream and prospect
of happiness utterly obliterated!
And did she bear no animosity to the man who, whether directly
or otherwise, she supposed to have brought her to this dreadful
pass? Not so much as would weigh in the scale with a hair! She
loved him, indeed, as dearly as ever--loved him beyond the grasp
of expression--loved him with all the ardour, depth, and devotion
of her nature.
If she could only weep--if she could only soothe her overcharged
heart, in its bitter ecstacy, with a few tears--then, she
thought, her misery would be assuaged. But her distress was so
exquisite, that even this relief, wretched as it was, would not
rise at her wish, and she had not so much as a tear to console
her.
She thought herself perfectly resigned, but, paradoxical as it
may sound, she was, in reality, nerved by despair. Beyond the
pallor of her complexion, and the fixed stare of her eyes, she
showed no outward sign of emotion; but within, where no eye could
observe her, she was wrung to the soul. And what a glorious thing
it was, now all was gone, to be able to brood over her sorrow
unobserved! How grateful was it to her to be alone!--to sit
and think, hour by hour, over her heart-rooted affliction, her
crushed affections, and her indomitable but fatal attachment!
Several hours elapsed before she ventured to return to the family
sitting-room. Ultimately, however, she did repair thither, and
there joined Sir Edgar and Don Felix.
Sorrow had breathed a blight over the once happy circle; and the
sweet harmonies of family intercourse, if looked for in outward
evidences, were visible no more. When they spoke at all, the
father and daughter spoke in monosyllables; and Don Felix, though
really no way disturbed, did little else but sigh. But what
most distressed Evaline was, not the silence, but the seeming
prostration of her father. Nor was it in his face, dejected as it
was, or in the tones of his voice, that she conceived this to be
apparent. It was in his excessive tenderness to her that she saw
his affliction. He seemed to be afraid to speak, or even to move,
without first looking at her, as if he imagined it possible
that his words or motion might give her uneasiness. In short,
he appeared to be so subdued, that he had resigned all care for
himself, and had no thought that was not entirely hers.
She hoped this would wear off, and that a day or two, at
furthest, would bring him more fortitude. But the habit rather
grew upon him; and day followed day, in tedious succession, and
with the same melancholy monotony, without altering his manner in
the least.
His evident wretchedness materially aggravated the depression
of Evaline. Though her own cause of sorrow, contrary to her
expectations, was none the less bitter or poignant from being
familiar, it did become less absorbing, and gradually left her
open to other and more tender impressions. In the severance
of one tie, she felt those that remained, and which embraced
her earlier affections, drawn yet closer, and her surviving
attachments become more enlarged and endearing. To her father, in
particular, her heart opened new and more devoted sympathies. He
was now to be her sole care--in him was rooted her only remaining
hope; and to soothe the downhill of his life, which her sorrows
had rendered rugged, was to be her one solitary aim.
In what way was her holy object to be accomplished? Her heart,
already so prostrate, fairly ran cold at the inquiry. But if
she recoiled from it at first, she soon began to think of it,
in her solitary moments, with more calmness. Occasionally,
when she thought no eye was observing her, she would steal a
glance at her father’s face, and, as she there saw what he was
suffering within, she would accuse herself of disobedience, and
even of selfishness. Then she would reflect, with something like
pleasure, that she could not live long; and, if she soothed the
last days of her father, what could it matter how she sacrificed
herself? Don Felix, it was true, could never possess her love;
but his present devotion to her father had restored him to her
esteem; and if it would give happiness to the latter, whom she
had made unhappy, why should she hesitate to wed him? It would be
all the same to her; she could not be more wretched than she was;
and when the hour should come which would lead her to another
sphere, where the very fulness of peace would be opened to her,
she would be haunted by no remembrance of disobedience, or shadow
of reproach.
But though her heart could pause on such a reflection, it was
too weak and human, and attached too closely to the memories
and associations of the past, to approach it with resolution.
She pondered on it, indeed, very frequently; but never long,
and always with some degree of horror. One afternoon, however,
it occurred to her so forcibly, that, strive as she might, she
positively could not repel it. She was seated in the common room,
and its only other inmate, it so happened, was her father. He sat
with his side towards her; but his head, contrary to his wont,
was resting on his open hand, and, though she repeatedly turned
her glance upon him, she could not see his face. After a time,
she began to think he was asleep; and something prompted her,
now she could not be observed, to approach him, and take a close
survey of his features.
Light as her step was, Sir Edgar heard her approaching, and
looked up. For the first time since the morning following the
return of Don Felix, her eyes met his, and she observed, at her
first glance, that they were filled with tears.
She had paused when he raised his eyes; but now, banishing her
hesitation, she sprang hastily forward, and threw herself at his
feet.
“Father!” she said, in a deep voice; and, as she spoke, she
planted her arms on his knees, and caught his right hand in both
hers:--“Thou think’st I love thee not!”
Sir Edgar’s eyes overflowed. “My child! my darling! not love me!”
he cried. “Oh, I know thou dost! I know thou dost!”
“I have been self-willed, dear,” answered Evaline. “Wilt thou
forgive me?”
Sir Edgar, bending a little forward, threw his arm round her
neck, and pressed his lips to her cheek.
“Shall I forgive thee for being my comforter?” he said. “Thou
hast ever been my true darling, and most loving child! What can I
forgive thee more?”
“I have denied thee to wed Don Felix,” pursued Evaline. “In good
sooth, my heart was then distract, but I will deny it thee no
longer. Thou shalt give me to him, father.”
“Our Lady forbid, my poor child!” faltered Sir Edgar.
“Thou shalt! thou shalt!” cried Evaline, trying to smile. “What,
wouldst turn on me with mine own waywardness, and cross me for
being undutiful?”
Perhaps, Sir Edgar saw, in spite of her smile, which was really
more distressing than tears, how biting a sorrow was wringing
her tortured heart, and so determined to yield to whatever she
should propose. Whatever might be the motive that influenced him,
however, he caught her round the waist as she ceased speaking,
and, thus holding her, drew her up to his bosom.
“Be it as thou wilt!” he said, in a broken voice.
“First, I will write to Captain Clifford,” resumed Evaline, “and
advise him, with what brevity I can, what he is charged withal.
This were no more than common justice.”
“No more,” said Sir Edgar. “But where wilt thou write to him,
dear?”
“To the lodging of Sir Walter Raleigh,” answered Evaline.
“I had a missive from Sir Walter this morning,” said Sir Edgar,
“enclosing a pass for Felix, but he makes no mention, in the few
words he hath writ, of Captain Clifford.”
“No doubt, they be both much occupied with the new levies,
preparing against the armada,” observed Evaline. “I will
advertise him, if he do not clear himself of the charges in ten
days’ time, he shall never see me more. When that space has
passed, I will hold myself free from him, and be ready to wed
Felix.”
“’Tis resolved like thyself, and let it be so,” replied Sir
Edgar. “The letter should be despatched to him with all speed.”
“I will write it incontinently,” returned Evaline.
Accordingly, she repaired to the contiguous table, and there,
sitting down, entered on the task forthwith. Her despair, instead
of distracting her, marshalled her thoughts into order; her hand
was as steady as marble; and, writing straight on, she shortly
brought her letter to a close. When she had thus finished it,
she carefully read it over; and then, though without speaking,
offered it for the perusal of Sir Edgar.
“I cannot read it,” cried Sir Edgar. “Seal it up!”
She felt inclined to read it over again as she drew it back; but
fearful that, as he had observed her read it over once, Sir Edgar
might deem her irresolute, she forbore, and hastily sealed it up.
Then, with a hand much less steady, she superscribed it, and gave
it over to Sir Edgar.
“Art resolved on this, Evaline?” asked that person, as he
accepted the letter.
She could not trust herself to speak; for the effort she had
made to appear composed, and by which she had been sustained so
long, was now spent, and her heart was bursting. By a desperate
struggle, however, she forced her lips into a smile, and nodded
affirmatively.
“I will despatch the missive at once, then,” said Sir Edgar.
Thus speaking, he strode out of the chamber, and proceeded in
quest of Adam Green. He soon found that individual, and, calling
him aside, presented him the letter, and directed him to convey
it to the Devon postman. He then turned to rejoin Evaline.
The forlorn girl had quitted the chamber before he arrived
thither. He was not sorry, on reflection, that it had so
happened, as he thought that she would be the better for retiring
a while. He was himself quite elevated; for he supposed that, on
a dispassionate review of what had transpired, she had mastered
her unhappy passion for Hildebrand, and was really desirous to
wed Don Felix. As he was pondering on this gratifying conclusion,
Don Felix joined him.
Sir Edgar grasped his hand on his entry, and at once unfolded
to him, word for word, all that had passed between him and
Evaline. The subtle Spaniard appeared to be overjoyed at the
communication. On pursuing the subject further, however, he
expressed a doubt whether, in case no other obstacle should
intervene, they could find a priest to solemnize the contemplated
marriage.
“There are licensed priests enow, did we know where to look for
them,” answered Sir Edgar.
“That I am well advised of,” resumed Don Felix; “and, now I
bethink me, one came over with me from France, and is still
somewhere in Exeter.”
“He may be a seminary priest,” suggested Sir Edgar.
“That is he not, but duly licensed,” returned Don Felix. “I will
inquire him out anon.”
While he was thus discussing the last preliminary of the proposed
marriage, Evaline, who was to be its victim, was brooding
over it in her chamber. Strange as it may seem, the evidence
of Hildebrand’s inconstancy, whether from familiarity, or from
being reviewed with a too partial eye, now appeared to her to
be defective, and she began to hope that he would be able to
prove it false. It is true, her hope, if viewed closely, was
associated with a thousand fears, but still it was a hope. She
knew that he had introduced to her acquaintance, under the name
of Don Rafaele, a person of exceeding beauty, and whom only
the most skilful disguise could make to pass for a male, and
she recollected many particulars in the conduct of that person
that quite confirmed the statement advanced by Don Felix. But
would Hildebrand have brought his wretched victim into the
presence of one whose ruin he only meditated? She thought not;
and though harassed, every now and then, with the most bitter
and excruciating apprehensions, and occasionally horrified at
the thought of the sacrifice she had proposed to her father, she
still hoped for a satisfactory and happy issue.
The hope, limited as it was, inspired her with new spirits,
and, compared with her previous bearing, she was quite animated
when she rejoined her father. Sir Edgar was overjoyed, and, to
all appearance, Don Felix was no less so; and they both strove
their utmost, by engaging her constantly in conversation, to
maintain her in the equanimity she seemed to enjoy. For a week,
or so, while her hope retained its ascendency, their efforts were
successful; but as the time drew nigh at which, according to the
period she had fixed, she might expect a reply to her letter
to Hildebrand, her spirits drooped, and she again sank into
listlessness and apathy.
The mental fever that she now endured was beyond expression
excruciating. It would have been far better for her to be
without hope, than to hang, hour by hour, and minute by minute,
by such a pitiful thread, and look down on all the horrors of
despair. What poignant thoughts struck her every minute! Now she
would be comparatively composed, and then, quick as lightning, a
fear would spring from her heart, that would make her brow sweat
again. What fearful agony was that! Yet it was nothing, in force
and horror, compared with what she endured at night. Then, when
every other eye was sealed in sleep, she lay on her troubled
pillow in a raging fever--restless, racked, and burning. Even
when exhausted nature sank her into a brief sleep, she writhed
under horrible dreams, and was soon, in spite of her exhaustion,
startled into action by a monstrous nightmare.
Yet all this time, under all this suffering, she bent her knee
daily, in humble adoration, before the inscrutable providence
of her Maker; she never once questioned the equity of His
dispensations; she only asked for mercy, patience, and fortitude
to bear them meetly.
Never a breath of complaint once escaped her. She even tried to
look cheerful; to exhilarate her father, she would even smile,
when, God knows, her noble heart was bursting.
At length the day arrived which was to decide her fortune. What
a day! Every approaching step, if she did not recognise it
directly, made her start. Once, looking out of the casement, on
the side of the mansion nearest the lodge, she espied a horseman
coming up the avenue. What a host of hopes and fears rose in
her bosom, during the few minutes that, from the time she first
saw him, the horseman was occupied in riding to the house! Both
Sir Edgar and Don Felix were in the room; but though she felt
assured, from the very outset, that the horseman was a messenger
from Hildebrand, she was afraid to call their attention to his
appearance, lest they should perceive her agitation. She was
still looking out of the casement, when, with a beating heart,
she heard old Adam enter the chamber, and approach Don Felix.
The next moment, the voice of Don Felix, whispering her father,
brought all her bright and inspiriting speculations to the ground.
“It is the priest,” he said.
Sir Edgar started up at this announcement; and, together with Don
Felix, and Adam, who was waiting their commands in the matter,
passed out of the chamber. As she heard them make their egress,
Evaline, now perfectly hopeless, drew back from the casement,
and ventured to turn round. She stood still a moment, as if
her despair had deprived her of motion; and then, with frantic
energy, rushed through the open doorway, and repaired to her own
chamber.
There she remained for several hours, alone and undisturbed. At
last, when it had become quite dark, she was joined by Martha,
who came to assist her to bed. Just as she had effected that
object, a slight knock, yet evidently proceeding from an unsteady
hand, was inflicted on the chamber-door.
“’Tis my father,” cried Evaline. “Prithee advertise him, good
Martha, I am marvellous weary now, and would be alone; but I will
be well prepared to-morrow.”
Martha hastened to the door, and, drawing it open, perceived that
their visiter, as Evaline had foretold, was indeed Sir Edgar.
Holding the door in her hand, she informed him, in a low tone,
what Evaline had said, and desired to know his commands.
“’Tis well,” answered Sir Edgar. “Inquire at what hour to-morrow
she will be prepared.”
“At nine of the clock, father!” replied Evaline, distinguishing
what he said. “Till then, God and our Lady have thee in ward!”
“And thee! and thee!” cried Sir Edgar. “We will attend thee in
the morning.”
And on the following morning, precisely at nine o’clock, the
appointed hour, he and Don Felix were in attendance at her
chamber-door. They were not kept waiting long. Shortly after
they had taken their station, the door was opened, and Evaline,
supported by Martha, appeared in the doorway. She was attired in
her most costly habits; but their splendour, on being surveyed
closely, sorted ill with her pallid complexion, and her inflamed
and swollen eyes. Still she had constrained herself to look
somewhat animated. She even smiled as she greeted her father, and
readily accepted the support which, on her coming fairly into the
passage, was proffered to her by Don Felix.
Leaning on the arm of that person, and followed by Sir Edgar
and Martha, she passed on to the chapel, which was on the floor
beneath. But her resolution began to waver as she entered the
chapel. Don Felix, though she still held his arm, paused at the
chapel-door, and suffered Sir Edgar and Martha to pass on before
them. He then secured the door.
Wretched and horrified as she had been all along, Evaline now
felt, in the severance of the last association with hope, a new
and more terrible anguish, and the full wretchedness of her
situation seemed to reveal itself only at this moment. But she
had no time for reflection. The priest, who had entered the
chapel before them, was waiting her at the altar; her father
began to look pale and anxious; and Don Felix, though with more
gentleness than his wont, led her trembling forward.
She stood at the altar quite unconscious of the awful rite that
was in progress: she did not hear a word--she did not see a thing
that was passing: her whole sense and energy--her very principle
of life, were bound in the torpor of despair.
The priest took up her hand. The fearful horror and utter
hopelessness of her situation, to which she had for a moment
appeared insensible, now burst upon her again. Her heart seemed
to leap to her mouth, and to force her, in spite of herself, to
say aloud--“O, God! hast thou forsaken me?”
The words had hardly escaped her, when a loud and prolonged
knocking, that made the building ring, was inflicted on the
chapel-door.
“’Tis he! ’tis he!” screamed Evaline.
So speaking, she broke away from the priest, and darted towards
the chapel-door. Before she could reach it, however, Sir Edgar,
who was scarcely less agitated than she was, sprang after her,
and arrived at the door first.
“Who knocks?” he demanded.
“In the name of our sovereign lady the Queen, open the door,” was
the reply.
The voice was Bernard Gray’s.