Thus did he pass the first day of his incarceration in Newgate. Night brought him no relief; and though, as the hour advanced, he stretched his limbs on his humble pallet, he never thought of disposing himself for sleep.
If he turned from the more immediate details of his situation, his extended reflections, though more varied, were not less distracting. His fair child was alone in the world. There was no one to prompt her inexperience; no one to defend her from aggression; no one, in her own sphere of life, with whom she could “take sweet counsel,” and maintain the relations of a friend.
In his sympathy for his daughter, his own situation presented its most pressing hardship. He could have borne it alone: for conscience sake, he could have sustained persecution, have submitted to oppression, and have uttered no complaint. But to be torn from his darling—his dear, loving child—was more than nature could endure.
The promised support of Sir Walter Raleigh did not inspire him with much expectation. It is true, he hoped, but doubtfully; and the varying humour of his reflections, rolling back into the past, and calling to mind all the grievances which the followers of the Romish persuasion were subject to, represented succour from a pillar of the Protestant church to be extremely uncertain. Sir Walter, too, was involved in the intrigues of the court; was an aspirant to royal favour; a partizan of particular interests; and, more than all, an avowed and approved enemy to the very existence of Popery.
Hildebrand was gone. On him, indeed, if the past could be relied on, he might have placed dependence; but he was beyond recall. It might have been so ordered wilfully. Hildebrand, with all his seeming honesty, might be a malignant impostor, suborned to betray him to the Government; and, at this momentous juncture, possibly absented himself with a perfect foreknowledge of the evil his absence would occasion. But, no! the thought wronged him! it could not be!
He thought of his daughter seeking to effect his deliverance. He fancied her, under the prompture of affection, throwing off the reserve and timidity of her nature, and pushing to his aid through all the shuffling influences of the world. He saw her submit to the frown of scornful authority; he observed her suing the interference of the powerful courtier; and he traced her, at the last, to her own chamber, supplicating the protection of her patron saint, or the countenance and support of the blessed Virgin. As he pursued the imagined picture, he marked her pale countenance, her pensive eyes, and her still bosom; and though the surface was all placid, though her sweet disposition revealed no shade of impatience, he knew how deeply she was stirred, and that her heart was bursting.
The following day, he learned that, in conformity with his expectations, Evaline had sought access to him, but had been denied. He would have written to her; but the gaoler, in a surly tone, informed him that this would not be permitted. He remonstrated; but, wrapped in the arrogance of authority, the gaoler made him no reply, but passed in silence from the cell, and secured the door behind him.
Sir Edgar now contemplated his situation in its worst terrors. He was like one in his grave, shut out from the world, and cut off, in every individual relation, from his suffering child! What might not happen to her during their separation, and he, walled in that chamber, not even hear of it! How might she not pine, how might she not be oppressed, or how insulted; and no one be nigh to bid her be comforted!
His own troubles, for which he had furnished no provocation, had made him violent; but in contemplating the affliction of his daughter, exposed to all the contumely of the unfeeling world, he was subdued. In her loneliness, he saw no resource; and as he fancied her struggling with her fate, alone and unfriended, and without one certain auxiliary, his eyes filled with tears.