“Fear not but I will, dear,” whispered her father in reply; “though I have no hope, from all we have heard, that he knows more of the cavalier than we do. But good night! and God, in his goodness, bless and protect you, my darling!”
Evaline would not trust herself to speak; but she pressed her pale lips, cold and trembling as they were, on her father’s cheek, and broke hastily away.
She had never parted from him this way before; and in the cold, dark night, to pass out of that gloomy prison, and leave him within, was a severe and terrible trial. As she took her seat in the carriage, it rose before her in its blackest colours, and, unable any longer to restrain her feelings, she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
She continued to weep till the carriage drew up at the door of her hostel; for Martha, though sympathising with her most cordially, was too deeply moved herself to offer consolation to another, and could only show her sympathy by her tears. Nevertheless, she did not suffer her distress, deep as it was, to render her forgetful of her duty, or to make her neglect those little attentions which were called for by the occasion, no less than the custom of her office. As the carriage-door was opened, she assisted her mistress to alight, and, following her into the house, attended her to her chamber. Having helped her to undress, she bade her a sincere good-night, and retired.
Hope has a powerful influence over young hearts, and, in the development of this influence, often manifests a more sterling excellence than we are apt to suppose. It is hope—often, indeed, founded on the dictates of piety, or the whispers of reason, but still hope—hope that we may yet, with all our afflictions, rely for aid on the presiding hand of Providence, or that we may find circumstances more supportable than we had thought—it is still hope, in whatever form, that lends the soothing balm to every sorrow, and the first breath of buoyancy to every sinking heart.
When her attendant had retired, and Evaline was left wholly to herself, she opened her heart to Him who could appreciate its excellence: and she rose from her knees with a humble reliance on His mercy, and submission to His will, that took from the blast of misfortune more than half its edge. As she pressed her fair cheek to her pillow, she thought of the many great blessings which, notwithstanding the sorrow of her present situation, she still owed to the bountiful hand of the Almighty; she remembered that she was yet possessed of health, station, perfectness of body and mind, and a liberal fortune; and out of the pious remembrance of the benefits she had received from Heaven, and which, though they might appear slight to some, really comprehended the chief objects of human desire, arose a hope of brighter days, and a promise of renewed enjoyment. The emotion awakened by her grateful sense of the favours of Providence, though of the very gentlest kind, called into action the best and noblest feelings of her heart, and these supported her under the affliction of the day, and nerved her with fortitude to meet the morrow.
She rose early in the morning, after a sound and refreshing sleep; and having, with the aid of Martha, fulfilled a brief toilet, hastened to join her father. She found him alone, and, like herself, more cheerful than on the previous night. There was even a smile on his lip as he pressed her in his arms; and they sat down to their morning meal, which showed no lack of provision, with some savour of contentment.
But Evaline had something at heart that prevented her from eating. She forbore speaking for a time, hoping that her father would mention the subject: but at last, unable to restrain her impatience, or, to speak more correctly, her anxiety, she broke the silence.
“Didst thou put Felix to the question, father?” she inquired.
“I did,” answered Sir Edgar, “but gleaned no more from him, in answer to my inquiries, than we knew before. He cannot even conjecture how the cavalier hath disappeared.”