Would his mother appear to him in enmity? Would she who had given him birth—who, during her life, had nursed and cherished and sustained him, and who could no longer be influenced by any earthly passion, burst the iron laws of nature to injure her only son? Surely, not! Yet his heart, which had been unmoved by the roar of hostile cannon, and had braved death in a hundred dreadful shapes, ran cold with horror; his hair rose on end; and his lips quivered so excessively that he could hardly bring them to pronounce, in an intelligible and distinct tone, that terrible and resistless name, which both the quick and the dead must obey.
A cold perspiration broke through his skin, as he observed that his exclamation, though indistinctly uttered, had been heard by the mysterious figure, and caused her to turn round. At the same moment, the moon, bursting from the cloud which had obscured it, poured forth its full light, and disclosed to him, in the pale face of the woman, not the scarcely-remembered features of his mother—but those of Donna Inez!
A dimness came over his eyes at this discovery; and the chill of horror that crted over his brain, like a rush of cold blood, fairly made him reel. But, by a desperate effort, he got the mastery of his weakness; and his eyes, again effective, turned on the grave once more. The figure had disappeared!
Was it an illusion? Had he, for all the testimony of his senses, been the sport of a mere imagination, and really seen nothing? With a beating heart, he turned his head hastily on either side, and glanced over his shoulders. No! The phantom—if such it were—had disappeared, and there was no trace of it to be seen.
A load was raised from his heart as he acquired this assurance. Nevertheless, it was with a heaving bosom, and an unsteady and hasty step, far different from his usual bearing, that he set forward, and once more bent his way homeward.
He paused when he had passed out of the churchyard, and, with unabated awe, again turned a glance around. Nothing but the white grave-posts was visible; and he resumed his progress.
A flood of bitterness opened on his heart as he pursued his way. He felt that, though it had appeared so substantially and distinctly to his eye, what he had seen was no more than imaginary; and was the natural effect of that previous meditation on Inez, which, notwithstanding that he could have no expectation of ever seeing her again, he had been so simple as to indulge in. He felt angry with himself, too, that he should allow so slight a matter to root itself in his memory—that his feelings should be so childishly tender, and his conscience so egregiously scrupulous, in the full vigour and thoughtless era of youth, as to make him writhe under the remembrance of a brief gallantry. Inez, no doubt, had by this time forgotten it herself. To dwell seriously on what he fancied he had seen would be absurd; and would, if it should ever be known, expose him to the constant ridicule and contempt of all his acquaintance.
And did these conclusions really compose him? Was he, in his heart, satisfied with the crafty and specious sophistry in which he had taken refuge? Oh, no! He roused himself into a temporary stubbornness of spirit; he lashed himself into a constrained levity; but every now and then, when his self-upbraidings seemed to be sinking into silence, the sting of conscience still pushed itself in, and made his heart start again.
But, for all this, when he arrived at the Grange, his excitement had driven from his aspect all trace of melancholy, and, far from looking depressed, he appeared to be in good spirits. Evaline and Sir Edgar received him joyfully. Don Rafaele, who would doubtless have viewed his return with equal pleasure, was not in the sitting-room when he entered, and nearly an hour elapsed before he did make his appearance. Then, however, though he looked somewhat flurried, he seemed to be in good spirits, and joined in the pending conversation with unwonted promptitude.