“’Twas well we talked so loud,” smiled Inez. “But how then?”
“Clinging round the lower frame of the casement,” resumed Hildebrand, “I dropped my feet to the veranda, and there, standing upright, surveyed its height from the ground. It looked a marvellous great distance, but I knew, from my experience of such matters, that it got this look of magnitude from the prevailing darkness; and, supposing it to involve but little peril, I made a bold spring for ’t. My conjecture proved correct, and I lit safely on the ground.”
“’Twas bravely done,” said Inez, unwittingly clinging more fondly to his arm. “But having reached the garden, how was it thou didst not pursue thy retreat?”
“By this hand,” answered Hildebrand, raising her trembling hand to his lips, “I could not have won the street, an’ I had been minded. I had scarce touched the ground, when a man started out on the path before me, with something in his hand, which I took to be a rapier. Though I was not afeard to encounter him, I had no desire to spill blood, and, therefore, I resolved to keep perdu a while. But he was on the watch, and, whether he suspected my vicinity, or simply sought to overlook the house, he held his ground, and so kept me close. This wearied me, and I determined, whatever should ensue, to set forward again. The darkness favoured me, and, keeping close to the house, I crept stealthily onward, and paused not till I came here. After staying here a space, I had concluded to sally out, and, if no one should be about, try to gain the street; but at this juncture, I heard thy step approach, and that, of course, brought me to a stand. Not doubting that thou wast some enemy, I looked round for a hiding-place; and, by good fortune, espied yonder closet, where thou didst happily discover me.”
“’Tis a downright tale of adventure,” observed Inez, with a smile.
“And I will be surety,” remarked Hildebrand, in reply, “thy progress hither hath also been venturesome. How didst thou fare, lady?”
Inez, quite reassured by their seeming security, did not hesitate to meet his inquiry with a full account of her excursion, and the thoughts and apprehensions that, according as its incidents were favourable or adverse, or her anxiety for Hildebrand more or less pressing, had marked its progress. Her narrative had a deeper effect on Hildebrand, whom his recent moments of reflection had rendered more collected, and less subservient to the wild impulses of passion, than she supposed; and inspired him with a more apparent interest than she had looked for. Indeed, in its detail of risks and terrors, it exhibited such a devoted affection for him, above what he had sought to excite, that he could no longer regard her as a mere light-of-love, or safely venture to trifle with her heart. The artless narration awakened his better nature, and, by the very confidence that it placed in him, called up in his bosom a sense of remorse, that was far from lending a stimulant to the dictates of passion. In the revelation of her fears and anxieties, he saw the tenderness and deep sensibility of her amiable heart, and became aware, by this discovery, that her character was not composed of the light elements he had imagined, but of all the choice and sterling qualities of her sex.
It would have been well for Hildebrand if he had paused on this interposition of his better judgment. It would have been a happy reflection for him, at a more advanced period of his life, that the first compunctious qualms of his warm and generous nature had not been unheeded, and that he had made a timely retreat from the temptation which he had so diligently sought. But his remorse and hesitation lasted only while he remained silent. Directly he replied to Inez, they began to subside, and, with the renewal of the conversation, his passion revived.
If Hildebrand betrayed such indecision under this first trial, it may reasonably be expected, from her youth and inexperience, not to mention the greater weakness of her sex, that Inez should be off her guard in an equal degree. Her passion, indeed, was true and genuine, and was becoming deeper and more deep every moment. It was attachment—not only to his person, but to his thoughts, wishes, and character; an interest in everything that, now or hereafter, in any measure concerned him, and which was gradually and imperceptibly absorbing all thought and care of herself, and making him the leading influence of her most precious affections.
Her attachment had just attained that crisis, if we may use such a term, at which it would be difficult, but might not be impossible, to uproot or restrain it. Here she might pause, but a single step more, with whatever caution it were taken, must be decisive and final, and could never be retraced. Whether she knew this, or not, or ever gave it a thought, she did not pause once, but left her affections without the least guard, and exposed to all the impressions which a fervid and sanguine temperament, free from the least taint of selfishness, could derive from the dangerous and very striking peculiarity of her position.