SONG.
O! love is like a summer flower,
As fragrant and as fair;
And thus it flourishes an hour,
And braves the hostile air:
But, like a flower, its bloom will fade,
Its life is but a span;
And soon it shows the hapless maid
O! ’tis a mournful thing to see
The flowers of summer fade!
How more than mournful must it be
To view the blighted maid!
Then, let no thought of present joy
A future sorrow sow—
That bliss must surely have alloy
That is another’s woe.
Though the images and sentiments of the song were not very striking, Hildebrand listened to it with the deepest attention, and, as it progressed, with no little emotion. Yet it was not the song—although, in its Spanish dress, it was well calculated to win and arrest the ear—but the singer, that moved him. His voice was so soft, its range so comprehensive, and its full and varied cadences so exquisitely delivered, that it sank to his very heart, and rapt him in wonder and admiration. He could hardly believe that the human voice was capable of such surpassing delicacy of expression. Even when Don Rafaele had ceased singing, his delicious tones still rang in his ear, and his ample chest, as if unable to command itself, still heaved with emotion. Gradually he became more composed, but he did not speak, and he seemed, by his silence, and the deep lines of thought that marked his brow, to be no way disposed to speak. Whatever it might be that he meditated on, his reverie, far from dispersing, became deeper and more deep, and appeared to increase in gloom as it advanced. His complexion grew pale and sad; his eyes, heavy; and, in the expression of his whole countenance, he revealed distinct and unquestionable traces of an uneasy mind.
After thus meditating for nearly half an hour, he seemed to arouse himself, and suddenly turned round to his companion.
Don Rafaele had fallen asleep.
“Fair, sweet youth!” said Hildebrand, in a low voice, as he looked on his lovely countenance, “this is a hard life for thee—and on me lies the blame. But I will be tender of thee. Albeit, in my thoughtless folly, I have unwittingly done wrong to her, she shall leave no charge on me concerning thee.”
So speaking, he caught the sleeping Spaniard in his arms, and, without loosening his clothes, raised him up, and carried him to his berth. There, with a deep sigh, he laid him gently on the bed, and left him to his repose.
He now proposed to take an hour’s rest himself. His duties did not debar him from this indulgence, as he had already, previous to leaving the galleon, made every arrangement that his ship and prize required. The command of the latter he had intrusted to Halyard, with a crew of forty men; and the watch of his own ship, during his stay below, was consigned to the able governance of Tom Tarpaulin. Both ships were bound straight for England, and, though the “Eliza” was a far better sailer than the heavy galleon, were so navigated, with the help of fair weather, as to keep constantly in company. Thus associated, they arrived, in about three weeks’ time, safe in the river Thames.
CHAPTER XI.
It was a fair morning in the January of the year Wonderful, or Admirable year, as it had been forenamed by Doctor Dee, and other knowing astrologers, that two cavaliers, mounted on gallant steeds, rode up to the Strand entrance to Durham House, and there alighted. The taller of the two, and, it may be said, the senior also, then stepped up to the door, and inflicted thereon a loud rap. His summons was promptly answered, and a servant, who appeared uncapped at the door, inquired his business.
“I would see Sir Walter Raleigh, an’ he be within,” replied the taller cavalier.
“Will it please your worship to advertise me of your name,” answered the servant.
“Master Hildebrand Clifford, of his worship’s cruizer, the ‘Eliza,’” rejoined the cavalier.
“His worship will be heartily glad to see thee, Sir,” said the servant. “An’ it please thee, prithee follow me to his presence.”
Hildebrand and his companion, who was no other than Don Rafaele, immediately entered the house, and were led by the servant to the library. There, agreeably to a premonition of the servant, they found Sir Walter Raleigh.
As they presented themselves in the doorway, and Sir Walter’s eyes, glancing thitherwards, caught a glimpse of their features, he sprang to meet them, and caught Hildebrand by both his hands.
“My right trusty Clifford,” he cried, “give thee a hearty welcome home! I need not inquire of thy health; for ’tis manifest in thy face.”
“An’ the face offer such credible testimony, I have a fair assurance of thine, Sir Walter,” said Hildebrand. “But,” he added, with a smile, “wert thou ever so ailing, I have news for thee would make thee right merry.”
“The matter! the matter!” cried Sir Walter, eagerly.
“We have brought home with us a fair galleon,” answered Hildebrand, “and, among other choice freights, she hath aboard of her, under a goodly guard, five hundred bars of gold, of the esteemed worth of thirty thousand doubloons.”
As Hildebrand thus briefly made known the successful result of his voyage, Sir Walter’s face became brighter and more bright at each word. So great was his joy, and, as it appeared afterwards, his surprise, that for a brief space he could not speak, and it was only by the sparkle of his eyes that Hildebrand became sensible of his gratification. In a moment or two, however, he recovered himself, and gave his sentiments utterance.
“Fair befall thee, my noble Clifford, for thy news,” he said; “and, to requite it, mayst thou never hear ill tidings thyself! Albeit I had a brave hope of thee, I looked not that thy report should bear such an excellent complexion. Sooth to speak, indeed, I had begun to fear thee lost.”
“I fear me, the chartered bark, which was designed to be mine abettor, is lost of a verity,” observed Hildebrand.
“Not so,” answered Sir Walter, smiling. “She hath returned safe, but hath been seized by the creditors. On reaching Roanoke, she was advised of thy visit and departure; and thereupon, having no hope of rejoining thee, came straight back. But who is this brave friend of thine, Master Clifford?”
“I’faith, Sir,” returned Hildebrand, “I may say, with a friend of thine, in one of his right famous plays, ‘thereby hangs a tale.’ He hath come with me from Cadiz, his native city; and I beseech thee, if my poor commendations can win him thy favour, to look upon him graciously; for I hold him even as myself.”
“No more,” said Sir Walter. “I would be friends with him.”
And, so speaking, he caught up Don Rafaele’s hand, and clasped it cordially.
“Fair Senhor, I give thee welcome to England!” he said, in Spanish. “While thou art here, beseech thee, as thou wouldst do me a courtesy, to make thy stay in my house.”
“I thank you, Senhor,” answered Don Rafaele, in a low voice.
Sir Walter was about to address him further, when Hildebrand, with more abruptness than his wont, interposed.
“I have another matter to tell thee of, Sir Walter,” he said, “which requires to be considered with all despatch.”
“What may it be?” inquired Sir Walter.
“There is a great expedition on foot at Cadiz,” answered Hildebrand, “and, as I am advised, in all the other ports of Spain; and men report (I know not how truly) ’tis designed against England. Moreover, the ambassador at Madrid has been placed in durance.”
“This is strange news, indeed,” observed Sir Walter. “How wast thou advertised of it?”
Hildebrand, in a few comprehensive words, informed him, by way of reply, how he had been arrested in Cadiz, and, without going into particulars, of his dialogue on that occasion with Don Felix di Corva. Sir Walter heard him to an end with the deepest interest, when, without a moment’s pause, he announced his intention of repairing instantly to the palace, and communicating his intelligence to the Queen.
“Thou must with me,” he added to Hildebrand. “Thy friend, who must be mine also henceforth, can tarry our return here.”
Don Rafaele, on being made acquainted with the proposition, and the fact that they were about to wait on the Queen, readily agreed to tarry there till they should return; and, at the same time, suggested that, if their business required despatch, Sir Walter could make use of his horse, which, as it was still saddled at the door, would prevent any delay. Sir Walter embraced his offer, and, together with Hildebrand, thereupon took leave of Don Rafaele, and departed. On reaching the exterior of the house, they paused only to commend Don Rafaele to the care of the servant, and then, with a prompt spring, mounted their horses, and set out for the palace.
Putting their horses to a brisk pace, they shortly arrived at that structure. They found, however, on inquiry, that the Queen was then in council, and, consequently, was not likely to grant them an audience. But Sir Walter, notwithstanding this, insisted that his message should be conveyed to her; and Sir Ferdinand Georges, to whom his communication was made, and who was the officer attending on the council, ultimately undertook to be its bearer.
Sir Walter waited the Queen’s answer with some impatience. At last (and, to say the truth, before very long), Sir Ferdinand returned, and informed him that the Queen would not see him till she rose from the council.
“I must even ask thee to seek her Highness once more, then, worthy Sir Ferdinand,” answered Sir Walter; “and advise her, that what I have to deliver withal is of exceeding moment, and involves the honour, safety, and welfare of her crown.”
“On such a message, Sir Walter, I dare not pause,” answered Sir Ferdinand. “Though it should bring me to the block, I will even advise her thereof.”
So answering, he turned away, and repaired once more to the Queen. While our two friends were speculating on the result of his mission, he reappeared, and, in a low voice, summoned Sir Walter to appear before the council.
Sir Walter entered the council-chamber with a firm step, and, making a low bow, advanced to the Queen’s chair, when he dropped gracefully on one knee, at her feet.
“Rise, Sir Walter Raleigh,” said the Queen, graciously. “We have received thy most alarming message; and as it comes from thee, whom we know to be wise above most men, and, withal, a right loyal gentleman, we may say truly, it is alarming.”
“Not less so than your Highness conceives,” answered Raleigh. “I am informed, from a sure quarter, that the Spaniard is preparing to invade us.”
An exclamation of surprise broke from several of the council.
“This news finds us unprepared,” observed the Queen. “Let a messenger be despatched for my Lord Burleigh.”
While Secretary Herbert, who sat nearest to the door, sprang to obey her injunction, the Queen resumed.—
“Whence derivedst thou these tidings, Sir Walter?” she asked.
“From the captain of my expedition to America, my liege,” answered Sir Walter. “He hath just returned, after capturing, with only one poor ship, a rich galleon, laden to the brim with Spanish gold.”
“By my troth, I give thee joy!” exclaimed the Queen, with sparkling eyes. “Let this brave adventurer, whoever he be, attend us at his convenience, and”——
While she was yet speaking, the chamber-door was thrown open, and Lord Burleigh, leaning on a crutch, and bearing in one hand a capacious green bag, appeared in the doorway.
All eyes were turned on the aged nobleman as he entered the chamber, and, with a slow and tottering step, advanced to his seat. His countenance, always grave, was now unusually dark and heavy, and seemed to intimate that he also was the bearer of important tidings. The Queen only replied to his bow with a smile, and all waited his first words in silent but eager expectation.
He did not keep them waiting long. On gaining his seat, he paused only to turn an inquiring glance on Sir Walter Raleigh, and then, in a grave tone of voice, proceeded to deliver himself.
“I met your Grace’s messenger on the stair,” he said, addressing the Queen. “I should have attended the council afore; but I was stayed, as I was mounting to my litter, by a courier from Madrid.”
“The news?” cried the Queen, anxiously.
“A scandal to Christendom!” exclaimed Burleigh. “Your Grace’s ambassador, Master Mason, had been placed under restraint, and was only just released. Further, a large armada, numbering one hundred and thirty ships of war, was preparing to invade your Highness’s realm. The ordering and force of the armada hath been boastingly set down in a book, as if it were above resistance; and certes, an’ we rely only on our earthly means, we are as Ichabod, and our glory hath departed. The courier”—here he put his hand into his large green bag, and drew forth a small book—“hath brought over one of these books, and I here offer it for your Grace’s inspection.”
The Queen, as he ceased speaking, eagerly caught up the book, and, drawing it open, glanced anxiously at its contents. As she turned hastily from page to page, the council watched the changing expressions of her countenance with the deepest earnestness; and for nearly half an hour, during which she never once looked up, or removed her eyes from the book, maintained the most profound silence. At length, the Queen laid the book down, and, in a somewhat agitated voice, broke the protracted pause.
“As the Lord liveth, we must to arms straight!” she cried. “Antichrist is up; and our fair realm, which hath been his greatest eyesore, is to be his first victim. The force is a hundred and thirty ships, commanded by the Marquis of Santa Cruz, who, we all know, is reputed both brave and skilful. Admiral Paliano, Don Amadius of Savoy, Don John of Medicis, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Duke of Sabionetta, with many others, the most renowned lords and princes of Spain and Italy, have a part in the expedition. Twenty thousand men, under that bloody man, the Duke of Parma, join it from Flanders. And—which shows its devilish origin—the Pope lays on its standard his most solemn benediction.”
As she ceased speaking, the several members of the council broke into various exclamations, which revealed, in distinct and forcible colours, both their surprise and their concern; but not one of them displayed the least indecision. Glancing hastily at their respective faces, the Queen seemed, by a sudden change in her demeanour, to derive from them a new confidence, which made her naturally stout heart even more determined, and put all her fears and apprehensions to flight.
“We must discuss this matter anon,” she said, after a pause. “Meantime, let each of you, in your several departments, ascertain our means and capabilities of defence, and be prepared promptly to settle what order and provision can be made in that regard. My Lord Burleigh, be it your business to summon together the Parliament. To-night, at nine of the clock, I will meet you all here again.”
“Before we take our leaves, my liege,” said Lord Burleigh, “it were advisable, methinks, that a measure should be resolved on for delivering these heavy tidings to your loyal people. Shall it be done by proclamation?”
There was a brief pause, when the Queen, in a happy spirit of invention, directed that the intelligence should be dispersed abroad through the medium of a public journal, to be published periodically; and which, at a merely nominal charge, should put the people in possession of every particular. The council unanimously approved of the project; and thus, at the dictation of the great princess, arose the first idea of an English newspaper.
As this grave and important point was settled, the Queen, happening to look on one side, let her glance fall on Sir Walter Raleigh, and she thereupon called that personage forward.
“We owe thee some thanks,” she said, “yet will we not pay thee now. We will see thee anon, when thou shalt deliver to us, as largely as thou canst, the several particulars of thy late expedition. Meantime, give thee farewell!”
Sir Walter caught up her proffered hand, and, with a lowly and graceful bow, raised it to his lips. He then bowed to the council, and retired.
He found Hildebrand without, looking anxiously for his return. Nevertheless, before he informed him how his intelligence respecting the Spanish armada had been confirmed, and what measures were meditated in consequence, he led him down the contiguous stairs, and brought him forth from the palace. There, being no way pledged to secrecy, he briefly acquainted him with all that had taken place at the council-board.
Hildebrand heard him to an end without interruption, when he suggested that, as he had yet a great deal to learn from him, and much to tell him, they had better ride off to the ships, at Deptford; and they would then be able to converse freely on their way. Sir Walter agreed to his proposal, and, accordingly, without further discussion, they mounted their horses, and set off in the direction of Deptford.
As they rode along, Hildebrand inquired anxiously after his friends the Nevilles, and how they had fared, subsequent to his departure for America, in their suit with the Government. Sir Walter’s reply called up in his bosom the most discordant and conflicting feelings. If the picture it presented of the sufferings of Sir Edgar, under the mortifications and indignities that he had been subject to, excited his indignation, he was moved to a softer sympathy by its detail of the patience, fortitude, and filial devotion of the incomparable Evaline. Nor was he indifferent to the favourable mention that was made of Bernard Gray, though, as Sir Walter’s knowledge of that person was limited, and derived only from the grateful remarks of Evaline, he was spoken of but briefly. He was silent for a short time after Sir Walter had put him in possession of the several particulars of the transaction, when he delivered himself at large.
“I do heartily admire Mistress Evaline’s dutiful bearing,” he said. “Of a verity, she hath a store of notable good qualities, and very excellent virtues. More have I never noted in any one maiden, in England or elsewhere. But, to hear thy tale out, Sir Walter, hast thou had no advice of her since her worshipful father was set at large?”
“I’faith, have I!” answered Sir Walter. “Sir Edgar and she came to me together, on the same day that he was enlarged; and discoursed with me concerning his liberation right familiarly. In especial did they dwell on their obligations to thee, and, as I failed not to confess, not without reason. Further, Sir Edgar did importune me, with many hearty fair words, to speed thee to him on thy return; and, albeit sweet Mistress Neville said not a word, methought she did second his invitation with her sweet looks, whereunto I tendered my whole allegiance.”
Hildebrand sighed. “I will even hold me to the good knight’s invitation with all despatch,” he said.
“Well,” smiled Sir Walter, “I would have thee do no less. But, now that I have made thy heart light (nay, look not at me so grievously amazed), prithee unfold to me at large the particulars of thy late voyage.”
Glad to escape from a subject which he began to think could not be pursued, at the passing moment, without subjecting him to Sir Walter’s raillery, though he could not remember that he had ever laid himself open to such a consequence, Hildebrand readily complied with this request, and proceeded to deliver a succinct history of his voyage. He touched as lightly as possible, however, on his personal adventures, and, in relating what had passed at Cadiz, entirely skipped over the romantic incident of his connexion with Donna Inez, which was, in reality, the liveliest reminiscence that the voyage presented to him. By the time that he had finished his narrative, they arrived at Deptford, and they then made straight for the ships.
They found that Master Halyard, impatient to have a turn ashore, had already begun to unload the galleon. The precious cargo of that vessel was now being raised up, and carted, under a guard of armed seamen, to the Queen’s warehouse. In the course of the day, the whole of the boxes of metal, the most valuable portion of the cargo, were thus secured, and every arrangement made for effecting a perfect clearance. When they had seen matters brought to this satisfactory stage, Sir Walter and Hildebrand, taking a hearty leave of Master Halyard, quitted the ship, and, mounting their horses, returned straight to town.
CHAPTER XII.
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.
CHAPTER XIII.
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:
Created Table of Contents to facilitate eBook navigation.
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)