“Evaline, I have some ill tidings for thee,” he said.
Evaline started. “What may they import, Sir?” she asked, in a faltering tone.
“’Twill grieve thee to hear, yet must I tell thee, notwithstanding,” answered Sir Edgar. “God give thee grace to bear them meetly!”
“Amen!” ejaculated Evaline, crossing herself.
Without saying a word more, she waited till Sir Edgar should unfold, at his own prompture, whatever he might have to communicate. Though Sir Edgar had before determined what he would say, her patient bearing so moved him, that he now faltered, and several minutes elapsed before he could proceed. At length, however, he opened his communication; and, acquiring more firmness as he progressed, disclosed to her all that he had just learned from Don Felix.
Evaline heard him to an end without interruption. Occasionally, indeed, as the more remarkable features of his tale were unfolded, she raised her dim eyes, and fixed a momentary glance on his face; but she never spoke a word. She knew that it was all true; she would have given her life—ay, her very life—if she could even have doubted it; but it carried conviction and reality in every single particular.
She sat in her chair like a statue—as still, as composed, and almost as unconscious. One would have thought, from her unruffled look, that she was indifferent to her father’s tidings—that she was quite calm and composed; but the calmness and composure were despair!
Her father paused when he had finished his communication, expecting, from the hint he had received from Don Felix, that she would swoon with grief, or, at the least, burst into tears. Deceived by her seeming composure, however, he supposed that it affected her only as far as, being so contrary to what she had looked for, it shook her opinion of a lately esteemed friend; and, under this impression, he pursued his discourse less tenderly.