It may speak little in Bernard’s favour, on a first view, that the unhappy consequences of the attack on Sir Edgar’s carriage, though they now caused him some anxiety of themselves, awakened in him no remorse or compunction for his share in the attack. The outrage had been attended with the loss of two lives, and had since, through the interference of Shedlock, involved the innocent family against whom it had been levelled in the deepest affliction; but, for all this, the enthusiast, amidst his concern for these evils, had not one prick of repentance. Was he, then, void of every sense of humanity? was his heart insensible to the most urgent calls of feeling and affection? No! It was stored, to the very brim, with choice and noble sympathies; it was naturally melting and pitiful as a child’s; but the remembrance of horrors that it would curdle the blood to mention, and which no interval of time could soften or deface, locked up his gentle qualities, and mailed his nature in revenge.
Walking at a quick pace, he soon arrived at Neville Park, and pursued his way, without meeting any interruption, to the spot where his appointment with Hildebrand was to come off. It was some time past noon, the hour agreed on: but though he looked round, as far as he could see, in every direction, there was no sign of Hildebrand coming. He lingered about for an hour, walking to and fro; but, at the expiration of that period, he was no nearer his object than at first. Although, in the main, this was no more than he had expected, it greatly increased his anxiety, and tended to confirm his doubts of Hildebrand’s safety. He remembered that Hildebrand was to take his departure from the Grange to-day, on business which, at their last interview, he had alleged to be extremely urgent; and he was assured, therefore, as they could not meet again for some time, that, if he were at liberty, he would make an effort to keep his appointment. But another hour passed, and Bernard, now grown impatient, was still pacing the park-walk, and still utterly alone. Wearied with his watch, he began to grow angry, and, as he came to a sudden pause, he gave utterance to his feelings in a passionate exclamation.
“The scornful boy neglects me!” he said. “I will even take me homewards.”
The idea of home reminded him that Hildebrand had inquired after his residence, and suggested, on a second thought, that, as he might be unable to meet him in the park, it was not improbable that he would seek him there. Meditating on this probability, he determined to repair to his lodgings at once.
It was in an obscure alehouse, distinguished by the sign of the “Angel,” and situated at the further extremity of the neighbouring village of Lantwell, that Bernard had fixed his residence. Although an alehouse, however, it was a retired tenement; and old Cummer Fisher, who was its proprietress, and only resident beside himself, was rarely invaded by any great influx of guests. Being at the other side of Lantwell, it was two good miles, if not more, from the spot he started from; but, after he had once determined what course he would pursue, he set off at a smart pace, and shortly arrived before the hostel-door.
But a brief greeting passed between Bernard and his hostess, and, this despatched, he proceeded to his own room, which was on the upper floor. Here, secure from interruption, he revolved over again all those reflections and conjectures that he had started in Neville Park, and impatiently waited for whatever might be the issue.
But no tidings reached him that night. The next morning, meditating as before, he made certain that he would that day receive some communication from Hildebrand; but, as on the previous day, hour after hour passed, and the morning gradually elapsed, without bringing him any intelligence of his friend’s situation. His worst apprehensions were now becoming confirmed, and he began to have no doubt, on mature and deliberate reflection, that Shedlock had involved Hildebrand in the charge which he had brought against Sir Edgar de Neville, and had committed them both to prison.
Directly this conjecture took full possession of Bernard’s mind, he formed a resolution to ascertain, by immediate and personal inquiries, how far it could be borne out by the facts. The only way of prosecuting such a purpose, in his situation—which, from his participation in the outrage that all these troubles had sprung from, prevented him from making any inquiries at the Grange—was by repairing to Exeter, and there learning who had been arrested; and the course thus open to him, though it was not unattended with some risk to himself, he resolved to pursue. Accordingly, having saddled and mounted his horse, he set out, and pushed forward for Exeter.
It was night when he entered the city; and he thought it advisable, before he advanced his mission any further, to provide himself a lodging, and procure bait for his horse. Both these objects being effected, he sallied forth on foot, determined to leave no means untried of finding out Hildebrand.
It was at the countinghouse of Shedlock and Craftall, in the High-street, that Bernard first paused in his excursion. The house was shut up; but in the part which might be more properly called the countinghouse, there was some trace of a light, peeping through the outlines of the window-shutters, which showed that one of the inmates was yet astir. The room in question, like the generality of commercial offices, opened into the street, and, consequently, Bernard was able to approach the door, and there listen a while before he solicited admittance.