The last of his house would never wed: when he should be laid in the cold grave, he would leave in the world, in which all men seek a memorial, not a vestige of his race. The inheritance of a score of ancestors, improved by his care, and extended by his economy, would pass to strangers, and he would die unmourned, and lie in his sepulchre unremembered.
Such were the bitter reflections that passed through his mind. And yet, in the face of these reflections, at the very moment that his disappointment pressed upon him most severely—even while he was thinking, every now and then, that the opposition to his wishes was unkind and unreasonable, his paternal heart bled for his child. He imagined her looking on the wreck of her bright dreams of promise—on lofty hopes overthrown, and deep aspirations stifled; and he saw her, as the ruin still confronted her, become paralysed at the view, and overwhelmed with the terrors of despair.
All his own energy was depressed and lost. In his inability to sway his child, he felt as though, in reality, he was no longer master of himself. His disposition had suddenly undergone an entire and radical change, and he now seemed, instead of being a man of thought and action, to be a mere creature of circumstance, and quite at the command of any influence that might approach him.
He was still meditating on his disappointment, when he was joined by Don Felix. That person, finding him alone, inquired the result of his conversation with Evaline, which he knew had concerned himself, with affected eagerness, although, if the truth must be told, he very well understood that there was no chance of its being favourable. Sir Edgar’s reply, informing him of Evaline’s determination not to wed him, appeared to overwhelm him with affliction, and, though no more than he had expected, did really fill him with the most bitter rage. Still, however, he did not despair of one day achieving revenge. In deference to Sir Edgar, he forbore to press the subject at that moment, but he looked forward, in his heart, to a time when he might successfully recur to it, and pursue it to a triumphant issue. Even at the passing time, indeed, he did not virtually neglect it; but by frequent piteous sighs, and his melancholy and dejected aspect, which beamed with pious resignation, urged his suit on Sir Edgar with unremitted assiduity.
Meantime, Evaline had shut herself up in her own chamber. On first entering it, she threw herself on her knees, at her bedside; and there, leaning forward, buried her face in her hands. And what did she pray for? Could she suppose, on looking out on the stupendous creation, which is too vast for human thought to review, that so insignificant an atom as she could appeal against and arrest the course of events, and draw from Heaven miraculous succour? What, though even the hairs of her head were all numbered—what, though the supreme Disposer, who planted and moved every source and spring of action, had called himself her Father—what, though he had himself said, “Come unto me, ye heavy-laden,”—was it to be thought, by any sane and reasonable being, that He would recall the past, and obliterate realized events, on her petition?
No such thought aroused the prayer of Evaline. She prayed, not against what could not be averted, but for power to bear what God should dispense—not for the reduction of her burden, but for grace and strength to sustain it.
She was somewhat soothed when she arose from her knees. But the holy assurance which she derived from her prayer, though it nerved her for the moment, was not lasting, and quickly sank under her associations with the world. In time, she might be resigned—that was her hope; but now—O God! who could bear it now?
If she did for a moment conjure up an assuasive reflection, the bitterness of blighted passion—as if, like a stranded sea, it had receded only to recruit its vigour—quickly rushed over her again, and bore down all opposition. What an afflictive and appalling spectacle did it present to her! Every hope washed away—every bright thought overthrown—every dream and prospect of happiness utterly obliterated!
And did she bear no animosity to the man who, whether directly or otherwise, she supposed to have brought her to this dreadful pass? Not so much as would weigh in the scale with a hair! She loved him, indeed, as dearly as ever—loved him beyond the grasp of expression—loved him with all the ardour, depth, and devotion of her nature.