To two persons of their turn of mind this was an easy and most agreeable employment. Hildebrand could tell, not only of strange lands, but of a strange world—of the new hemisphere, which, by the perseverance of a few daring adventurers, had just been opened to the enterprise of Europe, and added to the limits of the earth. Evaline could listen, question, and smile her gratification: the relation of “the dangers he had passed,” both by flood and field, and under every variety of fortune, unfolded to her view a new picture of life and an enlarged idea of human character. On the other hand, Hildebrand, without being vain, or making himself the hero of his own tale, found pleasure in relating and describing those dangers, because, from the interest manifested in her countenance, he saw that “she did pity them.” And thus, with the liveliest sympathies of each engaged, the morning passed quickly by, and they were only admonished of its flight by the return of Sir Edgar and Don Felix.
They now learned that the magistrate whom Sir Edgar had been to visit was not at home when he called. This, however, most unfortunately, was considered of little consequence; and as Sir Edgar and he were not on neighbourly terms, it was determined to send him a report of the late outrage in writing, and there, for the present, to let the matter drop. A report of this kind was accordingly drawn up, and transmitted, with a letter from Sir Edgar, without further delay.
The day wore on without interrupting, by any single incident, the harmonious relations that had begun to subsist between Hildebrand and Evaline. The novelty of first acquaintance subsided, but not its fresh and generous feelings; and they continually presented to each other, by some stray sentiment or expression, the trace of some new quality, or appeared personally to new advantage. Yet their mutual esteem grew upon them unconsciously, and they could not tell, with any accuracy, whence arose those pleasurable sensations with which they almost unwittingly regarded each other.
The day passed lightly off, as did the next, and several succeeding days, and nothing happened to disturb the general harmony. But a few days served to show Hildebrand, on close observation, that at least one of the inmates of the mansion began to regard him with displeasure. The Spaniard, Don Felix, from whatever cause, evidently looked upon him with jealousy and dislike. In vain did Hildebrand, by a marked courtesy, endeavour to overcome this bad feeling; the Spaniard seemed desirous to avoid him, or, when he could not do this, to approach him with suspicion and reluctance.
Several days had elapsed, when one evening, shortly after sunset, Hildebrand found a letter on the table of his bed-chamber, with the superscription of “Captain Hildebrand,” which drew his attention to other matters. The letter requested him to repair that evening to the bottom of the park-walk, where the public footpath, noticed in the early part of this chapter, struck across the park to the village of Lantwell. There, the letter set forth, he would find a friend, who was desirous to commune with him, pursuant to their previous understanding, on a matter of pressing moment.
Though there was little to guide him to such a conclusion, Hildebrand rightly conjectured, from the tenor and spirit of the letter, that his anonymous friend was no other than Bernard Gray; and, therefore, he determined, directly he had run the letter over, to set out for the spot appointed straightway.
The evening was just opening as he entered the walk which led to the public footway. But he was so impatient to join his friend, in accordance with the request of the anonymous letter, that he walked at a smart pace, never thinking that he might arrive at the appointed spot before he would be expected. As he approached the scene of the appointment, one of Sir Edgar’s servants—the same that had assisted him to repel the attack of the robbers—met and passed him; but Hildebrand was so bound up in the enterprise he had in hand, and the thoughts and expectations connected with it, and to which he probably attached more importance than was their due, that he rendered no acknowledgment of the servant’s salute. Some half-dozen paces more brought him to the footway, and he turned out of the walk, and took a few steps into the open area adjoining.
A cluster of shrubs grew by the side of the footway, whence they swept back, with diminished volume, to the park-walk, where they were arrested by the tall trees with which the walk was bounded. They were well adapted to afford any person who sought to avoid observation a secure hiding-place, but they might, nevertheless, have failed to incur the particular attention of Hildebrand, only that a sound just now broke from them, like the tread of a man’s foot on dead leaves, that led him to believe they were not untenanted. Regarding them more attentively, he distinguished the figure of a man, wrapped in a capacious cloak, crawling along between the shrubs; and the next moment Bernard Gray—for he it was—confronted him.
“How farest thou, Master Bernard?” said Hildebrand, extending his hand.
“Indifferently well,” replied Bernard, accepting his proffered hand and clasping it cordially; “and how dost thou?”