He durst not pray. The reflection that he had been brought into this situation by his own imprudence—nay, by a corrupt and abandoned selfishness, which affected the peace of another—this reflection was upon him; and, when he thought of imploring the protection of Heaven, it met his prayer in his throat, and turned it back with a reproach.
But the image of Inez, though predominant, was not his only accuser. If, urged by despair, he drove it for a moment from his mind, a hundred bitter and remorseful recollections rushed into its place. His imprudence, if so mild a term may be retained, had not only brought destruction on himself, from which there was no prospect of escape, but, in its consequences, would entail ruin on others. He could not think of his ship, lying in an enemy’s harbour, within the range of the batteries, and every moment liable to be visited by the local officials, without a thrill of anguish. Even his benefactor, Sir Walter Raleigh, would not be exempt from the effects of his folly; and, in the utter failure of his design on the Mexican fleet, which he had laboured so diligently to accomplish, and in which he had embarked the chief part of his fortune, would suffer irreparable detriment. Nor did Hildebrand forget, while pursuing this train of reflection, to charge himself with having failed seriously in his duty to his country. The assertion of Don Felix, on his being arrested, that the Spanish government contemplated the invasion of England, and which the martial preparations everywhere in progress amply corroborated, afforded ground to his conscience for a more startling accusation, and a more bitter and excruciating reproach.
He had stood upright in his dungeon, within a pace or two of the door, ever since he had been left alone, without moving a single step. The darkness around him, like that of Egypt, could almost be felt; but he was insensible to it, and could only think, at that moment, of his folly, his imprudence, and his guilt.
It may seem strange, on a superficial view, that a man who had passed his life in action, and had undergone all manner of vicissitudes and perils, should be reduced by the first touch of calamity to such utter prostration. That a sudden blow to an even and prosperous life should fall with severity, and be met by dejection, is no more than one might expect; but if it unman him who has been adversity’s companion, and, in his progress onward, walked hand in hand with all the accidents of war, it excites our surprise, and scarcely seems reasonable, or possible. But, however this may be borne out by ordinary cases, it is no less true, in the particular instance under consideration, that Hildebrand did not meet the passing calamity with any degree of fortitude. On the contrary, indeed, it found him totally unmanned,—his spirit cowed, his mind foundering, and his once brave heart, that a sense of rectitude would have nerved against the heaviest tribulation, burthened and weighed down by an overwhelming remorse.
It is often at the eleventh hour, when it is too late to make reparation, that a man becomes alive to the full effect of a past and irretrievable excess. Even then, however, if heartily resolved on amendment, it is possible to render the consequences of his trespass less grievous and severe. A good intention involves some of the benignant influence of a good act; and though we should be unable to carry it into effect, the conviction that it had received our best support, and that its failure was not owing to any lack of effort, but to causes beyond our reach, will afford us a savour of that satisfaction and cheerfulness that attend success. When we conceive a sincere regret for wrong we have inflicted on others, the heart is beginning to expand, and, if we may use such a phrase, to develop its resources; and though we may writhe under the first and earlier visitings of self-accusation, and feel its continuance to be torture, it will gradually call up in the heart better and softer feelings, and, in our compassion for those we have injured, lend a comfort and strength to ourselves.
Thus did Hildebrand ultimately attain a certain degree of fortitude and composure. As the reproaches of his conscience became more familiar, and the terrors of his position, from his surveying them over and over again, lost their air of novelty, his manliness seemed to revive, and, though he was still unutterably miserable, his wretchedness was not without dignity, and his remorse was no longer despair.
But, notwithstanding the amelioration of his distress, he remained pensive and restless the whole night. The day—for even in the gloom of his dungeon, to which perfect light was unknown, there was a slight distinction in the seasons, and he could tell the day from the night—found him still awake, and still rapt in anxious reflections.
The morning was somewhat advanced before he received a visit from the gaoler; and though, as his remorseful mood was unshaken, the immediate features of his situation continued to press themselves on his mind, this circumstance did not escape him. It had hardly incurred his notice, however, when, not without feeling some interest in the issue, he heard the fastenings withdrawn from the dungeon-door; and the door being thereupon pushed open, the gaoler entered.