The discovery that the reputed Don Rafaele, whom he had
supposed to be a gay young bachelor, was no other than his
whilome mistress, Donna Inez, struck Hildebrand Clifford with
consternation. For a moment, indeed, he was perfectly paralysed,
and lost all power of motion. His whole soul and faculties were
bowed before the devoted passion for him which the discovery
revealed. His every spring of thought, as if turned for one only
aim, started under the shock, and, as they thrilled through his
bosom, overwhelmed him with the terrors of remorse.
But though he had been weak enough to err, though the passing
consequence of his error pressed severely on his mind, he was
of that temperament which, however trying the occasion, will
rebound from a shock, and suffer no visitation to shackle its
promptitude. His energies were depressed, but they were not
crushed; and, after the first blow had passed, they revived, and
impelled him to make the only reparation for his trespass, by his
present proceedings, that circumstances allowed of.
“And is it thou, indeed, my sweet lady?” he said, in a thick
voice. “Oh! I have wronged thee most cruelly!”
“Not a whit! not a whit!” faltered Inez. “’Tis rather I that have
wronged thee.”
“Would to God it had been so!” exclaimed Hildebrand. “But let us
not forget thy wound! How fares it with thee?”
While Donna Inez, in a low voice, was giving him a reply,
the silent pantler entered, with a bason of warm water, and
a napkin. Hildebrand then raised her a little; and, keeping
his back to the pantler, succeeded, after some difficulty, in
relieving her of her jacket, and baring her wound to view. He
turned paler as he beheld it:
“Bring hither the water,” he cried to the pantler, “and hold it
up to the berth. Now for thy sponge.”
The pantler, without making any oral answer, presented him with
the sponge, and held the bason of water in the manner directed.
Thus assisted, Hildebrand proceeded, with a tender hand, to wipe
away the blood from the Donna’s wound, and cleanse it thoroughly.
Having effected that object, he drew some lint and salve, such
as was then greatly in use, from the locker below, and therewith
supplied it with a soothing dressing. Over this, to keep off any
irritation, he laid a piece of dry lint, and bound all up with a
bandage.
“Now, will I not let thee speak more till to-morrow,” he said,
when he had thus attended her. “But our good pantler, whom thou
mayst trust in all things, will watch thee through the night, and
get thee whatsoever thou listest. For me, I must hie to the deck.”
Inez was about to reply, but Hildebrand, putting on a serious
look, raised his finger to his lips, and she forbore. Leaving the
pantler to watch her, Hildebrand turned on one side, and caught
up some dry clothes, which, during his absence from the ship, the
careful pantler had laid out against his return. As he had been
exposed to the storm without a cloak, he was wet to the skin;
and even the strong excitement he had been labouring under, and
the robustness and vigour of his frame, though equal to a trying
ordeal, did not render him insensible to the chilling influence
of his saturated garments. The greater need of Inez attended to,
he proceeded to throw them off, and to don those which, he now
discovered, had been set out for his use by the pantler.
He turned away when he had thus changed his attire, and, with a
quick step, passed to the contiguous hatchway, and ascended to
the deck.
The storm had subsided, and the excessive darkness, which had
been its leading and most terrible feature, had materially
diminished. The gale, it is true, continued high, but, as it
swept away the exhausted thunder-clouds, this served rather to
clear the atmosphere, than otherwise. One could now distinguish
the outlines of the shore, and, here and there, the broken sky,
with the clouds flying over it like wind. The water, too, though
not a whit calmer, could be viewed to a greater distance, and
looked a degree less boisterous under the increased light.
While Hildebrand noted these particulars, his eye, in looking
down the river, was attracted to two distinct flashes of light,
which were quickly followed by the report of cannon. Turning to
inquire what this could mean, his glance fell on Master Halyard.
“Save thee, Halyard!” he said. “Didst note yonder signals?”
“Ay, Sir!” answered Halyard. “Two of the enemy, who broke from
their moorings a while ago, have run ashore, and are firing guns
of distress.”
The firing was here repeated.
“It may be our lot soon,” rejoined Hildebrand; “for we must not
be found here at daylight. Think’st thou we can reach the bay?”
“The wind is right aft,” returned Halyard; “and we may,
peradventure, ride down safely. One thing is certain--that we
cannot hold our ground; for our cable, though no chamber-cord, is
dragging apace, and will speedily snap.”
“Slip it, then!” said Hildebrand. “Have up all the hands, and do
thou look out for’ard thyself. I will take the helm.”
“Ay, ay, Sir!” replied Halyard.
And so promptly did he bestir himself, that, in less than ten
minutes afterwards, Hildebrand’s injunctions were carried into
effect; Hildebrand had posted himself at the helm; and the ship
was riding down the river, as near the centre as he could keep
her, under bare poles.
It was a fearful position, but, as the river gradually widened,
the danger decreased every moment. The scene, however, was
still terrific, and sufficient to appal the stoutest heart. The
gloomy light, the black shore, the two stranded ships, which
the eye could now plainly distinguish, and the boom of the guns
of distress, with the furious bellowing of the wind, and the
raging waves, made one feel like a mite in the creation, and
perfectly at the mercy of the elements. Moreover, the wind
being right aft, and the waves, though not high, running in
what would technically be called a cross-sea, caused the ship
to pitch so violently, that the crew, notwithstanding they were
inured to such situations, could hardly maintain their places on
the deck, and were obliged to hold on for support to contiguous
belaying-pins, and well-secured halyards.
Still the indomitable captain, with one foot planted firmly
against a prostrate grating, which was pushed up to the ship’s
bulwark, maintained his place at the helm. It required his utmost
vigour to make the helm obey him, but so iron-bound was his
frame, and so unbending his promptitude, that, with the help of
the wind, he mastered all opposition, and kept the ship in the
mid-channel.
The gallant bark flew along like an arrow. She soon passed the
two wrecks, and, after an interval of about two hours, came in
sight of the fortress, described in a former chapter, which
guards the river’s mouth. The crew hardly ventured to breathe as
she arrived abreast of the all-commanding castle. But, to their
great relief, she encountered no molestation, but shot over the
bar unscathed.
The inspirited mariners burst into a hearty hurrah at this happy
deliverance; and Master Halyard, relieved from his look-out,
hastened to join Hildebrand, and congratulate him on their almost
miraculous escape.
To a landsman, by whom their position could not be understood,
there would have seemed but small ground for congratulation.
They were in the Bay of Biscay, and the wind, now unbroken by
any heights, which had bordered either side of the river, blew
a perfect gale. The ship, though running under bare poles, was
up in the air on one side, and almost touched the water on the
other; and the sea rose up beyond like a great wall. High as it
was reared, one could hear it curling at the top, with a long,
shrill roar; and what withheld it from at once dashing on the
ship, and overwhelming it in destruction, appeared to be a
singular and unfathomable mystery.
But, to the eyes of the mariners, these particulars, in reality,
presented little danger. They had a good ship, a fair offing,
and plenty of room; and though, of course, brighter weather
would have been more welcome, their present situation was not so
perilous, and gave them little serious concern.
Hildebrand resigned the helm to his mate, Tom Tarpaulin, as
Halyard came up. He received that person cordially, but, after a
few words’ greeting, tarried only to enjoin him to set a careful
watch, and then retired to his cabin.
Worn out as he was, and with every fibre aching with fatigue,
the first thought that assailed him, on fairly entering the
cabin, was solicitude for Inez. Moved by this feeling, he pushed
past the pantler, who sat watching on the locker, and, with a
stealthy step, approached the fair sufferer’s resting-place.
She was awake, and her eyes, looking up at his approach, met his.
He saw, at a glance, that she was burning with fever.
She did not offer to speak, and, after one hasty glance at her
face, Hildebrand turned away, and stepped back to the pantler.
“Be vigilant!” he said to that person. “She will want a drink
anon, and thou must give her something cool. I must to bed, or
sink.”
With these words, he turned to the adjacent berth; and without
taking off his clothes, which were perfectly dry and warm, threw
himself on the bed. Thus bestowed, he tried to meditate, and
to call up to his eye, in melancholy array, the several causes
for sorrow and dejection which his situation embraced. But,
however earnestly he sought to arouse himself, his energies
were so utterly prostrated, and his frame so wearied, that his
endeavours at meditation were unsuccessful, and he had hardly
laid fairly down, when he was overtaken by sleep.
It was daylight before he awoke. Springing to the floor, he found
that, after having been awake the whole night, Inez had at last
fallen into a slumber.
As he proceeded to achieve his toilet, he called to mind, with a
thrill of remorse, all that Inez had disclosed to him, and how
far he was responsible for the wretchedness of her position. What
a bitter retribution had one slight deviation from rectitude
brought upon him! After his escapes in the field, his dangers on
the seas, and his extraordinary vicissitudes as an adventurer,
his life was to be crossed by an error, just as it was opening
on a land of promise. Nor was it solely on this personal ground
that he looked on that error with remorse. His heart, though it
had committed a momentary excess, was stored with manly and
noble feelings, and, while it reproached him for his own conduct,
inspired him with the liveliest commiseration for Inez. He
thought of her beauty, her innocence, and her lofty spirit; but
above all, as referring more nearly to himself, he thought of the
deep and devoted love, which she had so unequivocally manifested
for him.
The heart, in matters concerning the affections, but especially
in a matter of love, is a dangerous thing to trifle with,
and should always be sounded with the nicest care. When our
sympathies are astir, we are liable to contract impressions,
under a sort of surprise, that will deceive our own selves, and,
though they are only superficial influences, sway us with the
force of passions. If we searched our hearts deeply, we would
find, on a closer view, that those impressions are not created
so much by external agents, as by innate feelings; and, further,
that we understand their nature very imperfectly, and entirely
mistake their tendency. What we conceive, for instance, to be
love, may really be no more than an elevated sympathy, though our
inclination to mistake it may give it the colouring and force of
love, and the strength of passion. If, in the outset, indeed, we
apply to it the tests which love should sustain--if we propose to
it the sacrifices that love would offer, or the mortifications
that love would brave--the delusion will vanish; but, in the
ecstacy of the moment, this course rarely occurs to us, and we
cling to the delusion till it appears real, and renders us as
giddy as absolute intoxication.
Hildebrand was a man of arms; but his heart, as has been said,
was full of strong feelings, and lofty affections. He was no
weakling, who would allow those affections and feelings to be
his master; but, at the same time, he allowed them their due and
legitimate influence. He thought of Inez, and, while he did think
of her, the deep and ardent sympathies of his nature, which
she had never touched before, insensibly associated with his
thoughts, and made the thread that ran through them assume the
appearance of love.
What a miserable infatuation! When he first discovered that he
loved Evaline, did the obstacles to a successful issue, though
their name was Legion, give his heart the slightest concern?
Was it not light, and springing, and buoyant as morning? And
now, without giving a thought to Evaline, he found that he loved
another; and his heart was heavy as death.
No! it was not love! It was pity, sympathy, and an utter
abandonment of his own self. It was the remorse of a noble
spirit, which prostrated itself, and all that it valued in the
world, at the feet of one whom it felt that it had wronged.
Nearly an hour elapsed before Inez awoke. Then, looking up, her
eyes met those of Hildebrand, who was watching over her.
“How farest thou, sweet lady?” Hildebrand asked, in a tremulous
tone.
“I’faith, marvellous thirsty,” answered Inez.
Hildebrand presented her with a draught, which, according to his
directions, the silent pantler, who had now retired to rest, had
laid ready on the table.
“I burn still,” pursued Inez, “and my wound is like fire.”
“We must look to it,” said Hildebrand.
He went in quest of some warm water, and shortly returned,
bearing a bason and napkin. Thus provided, he proceeded to
relieve her arm of the exhausted dressing, and bare its wound to
the view.
The wound was, as he had feared, greatly inflamed, and looked
angry in the extreme. He thought to subdue the inflammation, in
some measure, if not materially, by fomenting it with warm water;
but, whether because the ball was still lodged in her arm, and
irritated the wound, or that, owing to the high fever she was
in, the emollient was too gentle, his efforts with this view were
without effect. He was obliged, therefore, to content himself
with applying another soothing dressing, and recommending her to
keep perfectly still and quiet.
The weather had greatly moderated, and, therefore, he was able,
without neglecting his professional duties, to hold himself
continually at her call. For four or five days he hardly quitted
her side. His fine, animated features became pale with watching;
and the look of health and buoyancy, arising from a well-ordered
life, and a guarded temper, which had once illuminated his
cheeks, quite disappeared.
Meantime, the ship, favoured by the wind, made good progress, and
finally arrived in the English Channel. On the eighth morning
after her departure from Lisbon she reached the Downs. Skirting
that roadstead, she steered round the Foreland, and made
straight for the Thames.
It was just as they passed the Downs, about nine o’clock in the
morning, that Hildebrand made his customary inspection of the
wound of Donna Inez. It was fearfully inflamed; and on the verge
of the wound, contrasting strongly with its angry centre, there
was a small white speck; it was the seal of death!
The eyes of the young mariner filled with tears as he beheld
this trace of mortification. He tried to speak; but the words,
overwhelmed by his feelings, stuck in his throat, and his
volition and self-command were completely lost.
His emotion, though more inward than external, was not unobserved
by Inez.
“What aileth thee?” she said, tenderly. “Mournest thou for me?”
“I must not delude thee, sweet Inez,” answered Hildebrand, with a
convulsive effort. “Thou canst not live long.”
“That know I well,” replied Inez. “Yet weep not! Give me thy hand
awhile!”
Hildebrand, stepping a pace nearer the berth, put forth his hand,
and placed it in hers. As he did so, she raised it to her parched
lips.
“I have loved thee dearly,” she said.
Hildebrand made no answer; but the tears, which had already
mounted to his eyes, poured down his cheeks, and gave her a
response from his heart.
“And, look you!” she continued: “’tis more joy to me to die thus,
with thy love, than ’t were to have lived to fourscore, and not
have known thee.”
“Would thou couldst live to be mine!” exclaimed Hildebrand--and,
at the moment, he spoke from his heart.
“I know thee well!” resumed Inez. “Thy nature is wondrous
pitiful, and full of gentleness; and when I am agone, thou wilt
accuse thyself, mayhap, that I died through thee.”
“’Twill be my one thought,” cried Hildebrand; “but to show how I
repent me, I will be true to thy memory, and hold myself single
till death.”
“An’ thou wouldst have me die happy, say not that, sweet
Hildebrand!” returned Inez. “Nay, promise me, on thine honour,
that thou wilt wed--and no other than Evaline!”
Something whispered Hildebrand, that, even if he could overcome
his own scruples to such a course, a marriage with Evaline was
now out of the question. But, as this occurred to him, his
eyes happened to meet those of Inez, and they looked on him so
imploringly, and with such deep and pathetic solicitude, that
he resolved not to disturb her last moments by any selfish
apprehension, but to resign himself wholly to her wishes.
“I will be ordered by thy will,” he said.
“’Tis well, and I love thee the more for ’t,” pursued Inez--“yet
not more, for that were not possible.”
“No, i’faith,” said Hildebrand. “How else couldst thou relinquish
thy country, and the comforts of thy heritage, for a poor
stranger?”
“I did it not unknowingly,” answered Inez. “One Felix di Corva,
who had known thee in England, told me thou wast a cavalier of
fortune, and, further, that thou wast betrothed to a lady of
England. Methought, I would follow thee; and if his advertisement
proved false (which I believed it would), discover myself to
thee, and give thee my hand.”
“Would it had so turned out!” exclaimed Hildebrand.
“On our route to England,” continued Inez, “thou didst pledge me
to thy mistress’s health; and, in thy description of her, didst
laud her in such sort as, in my vain conceit, I fancied applied
to me. Hereupon, my love was more hopeful, and I looked for a
better issue.”
“I remember the time well,” observed Hildebrand.
“I held my hope good,” resumed Inez, “till I saw the fair
Evaline, and even then gave it not up directly. Yet thou mayst
remember, on consideration, that, one fair afternoon, I came on
you by surprise, and beheld what convinced me that thou lovedst
her.”
“Then knew I not how I was loved by thee,” said Hildebrand.
“’T is true,” said Inez; “and think not I blamed thee, but, in my
utter despair, I blamed and hated her. That night, I sought to
take her life.”
Hildebrand started.
“But better thoughts withheld me,” resumed Inez, “and, from
holding her in hate, I began to regard her in a more friendly
sort. Methought, if I could but bring myself before thee, in my
own proper person, my charms were as goodly as hers, and might
win thee to me again. One day, thou wast abroad till after
nightfall. I had followed thee in the morning, and, unobserved
by thee, noted the route thou hadst taken. It led me to a
churchyard, and there, to my singular admiration, I found thy
name inscribed on a grave-post.”
“’Twas the grave of my father,” said Hildebrand.
“So I divined,” continued Inez. “At night, as thou hadst not
returned, methought I would go forth to meet thee, in my own
proper attire. Thou wilt remember, thou didst see me that night,
at thy father’s grave.”
“I took thee for a spirit,” said Hildebrand; “and, on
after-thought, considered thee a mere imagination.”
“I saw that that was thy thought,” pursued Inez, “and, in the
darkness, availed myself thereof, before thou couldst recover,
to get clear away. I reached my chamber unperceived; but, at
thy father’s grave, other fancies had come upon me, and I chose
rather to dwell on them, than to go straight into thy presence.
Those fancies led me, on closer reflection, to make peace with
mine own bosom, and so be at peace with God.”
She had all along spoken with difficulty, and in a low tone; but
her last words, which had conveyed to her lover such a gratifying
intimation, seemed to have expended her last effort, and she
now sank panting on her pillow. She lay thus for some time; but
gradually, though by very slow degrees, she became less ruffled,
and respired freely. But she continued perfectly still; and,
whether because she was uncollected, or had nothing further to
say, made no attempt to speak again.
Hildebrand, no way impatient, remained standing by her side,
gazing anxiously in her face. Hour by hour did he thus watch her,
with his heart, and soul, and all his hopes of fruition, now
devoted entirely to her, locked and centred in his gaze.
It was the afternoon, and the sun, arrayed in the pride and glory
of summer, poured a stream of rays through the skylight, right
on to the sufferer’s face. Thinking that the light might annoy
her, Hildebrand was about to draw the curtain over the berth; but
before he could accomplish his purpose, she caught at his hand,
and clasped it in hers.
Her hand, which was so white and lovely to the eye, was cold as
ice, and felt like the touch of death. Hildebrand was unmanned.
“My love! my Hildebrand, prithee do not weep!” said Inez, in
faltering accents, and fixing her lustrous eyes on his. “I would
bid thee farewell!”
Hildebrand, with a bursting heart, leaned over her pillow, and
pressed his lips to hers.
“May God have mercy upon us!” he cried, with great devoutness,
“and, for his sweet Son’s sake, take thee to his everlasting joy!”
As he spoke, Inez, by a great effort, raised her hand, and held
up before her an ebony crucifix. Seeing that she could not hold
it herself, Hildebrand flew to her succour; and, clasping her
round the wrist, just below the crucifix, kept it up before her.
Her eyes grew less lustrous as it was thus fixed in their view.
“I am the Resurrection and the Life!” she murmured, in broken
words: “whosoever believeth on Me”--
She was yet speaking, when, all at once, her lips broke into a
bright smile, and Hildebrand felt her arm dropping down. Seeing
that she was nigh her last breath, he stooped to kiss her: _she
was dead!_