If she could only weep—if she could only soothe her overcharged heart, in its bitter ecstacy, with a few tears—then, she thought, her misery would be assuaged. But her distress was so exquisite, that even this relief, wretched as it was, would not rise at her wish, and she had not so much as a tear to console her.
She thought herself perfectly resigned, but, paradoxical as it may sound, she was, in reality, nerved by despair. Beyond the pallor of her complexion, and the fixed stare of her eyes, she showed no outward sign of emotion; but within, where no eye could observe her, she was wrung to the soul. And what a glorious thing it was, now all was gone, to be able to brood over her sorrow unobserved! How grateful was it to her to be alone!—to sit and think, hour by hour, over her heart-rooted affliction, her crushed affections, and her indomitable but fatal attachment!
Several hours elapsed before she ventured to return to the family sitting-room. Ultimately, however, she did repair thither, and there joined Sir Edgar and Don Felix.
Sorrow had breathed a blight over the once happy circle; and the sweet harmonies of family intercourse, if looked for in outward evidences, were visible no more. When they spoke at all, the father and daughter spoke in monosyllables; and Don Felix, though really no way disturbed, did little else but sigh. But what most distressed Evaline was, not the silence, but the seeming prostration of her father. Nor was it in his face, dejected as it was, or in the tones of his voice, that she conceived this to be apparent. It was in his excessive tenderness to her that she saw his affliction. He seemed to be afraid to speak, or even to move, without first looking at her, as if he imagined it possible that his words or motion might give her uneasiness. In short, he appeared to be so subdued, that he had resigned all care for himself, and had no thought that was not entirely hers.
She hoped this would wear off, and that a day or two, at furthest, would bring him more fortitude. But the habit rather grew upon him; and day followed day, in tedious succession, and with the same melancholy monotony, without altering his manner in the least.
His evident wretchedness materially aggravated the depression of Evaline. Though her own cause of sorrow, contrary to her expectations, was none the less bitter or poignant from being familiar, it did become less absorbing, and gradually left her open to other and more tender impressions. In the severance of one tie, she felt those that remained, and which embraced her earlier affections, drawn yet closer, and her surviving attachments become more enlarged and endearing. To her father, in particular, her heart opened new and more devoted sympathies. He was now to be her sole care—in him was rooted her only remaining hope; and to soothe the downhill of his life, which her sorrows had rendered rugged, was to be her one solitary aim.
In what way was her holy object to be accomplished? Her heart, already so prostrate, fairly ran cold at the inquiry. But if she recoiled from it at first, she soon began to think of it, in her solitary moments, with more calmness. Occasionally, when she thought no eye was observing her, she would steal a glance at her father’s face, and, as she there saw what he was suffering within, she would accuse herself of disobedience, and even of selfishness. Then she would reflect, with something like pleasure, that she could not live long; and, if she soothed the last days of her father, what could it matter how she sacrificed herself? Don Felix, it was true, could never possess her love; but his present devotion to her father had restored him to her esteem; and if it would give happiness to the latter, whom she had made unhappy, why should she hesitate to wed him? It would be all the same to her; she could not be more wretched than she was; and when the hour should come which would lead her to another sphere, where the very fulness of peace would be opened to her, she would be haunted by no remembrance of disobedience, or shadow of reproach.
But though her heart could pause on such a reflection, it was too weak and human, and attached too closely to the memories and associations of the past, to approach it with resolution. She pondered on it, indeed, very frequently; but never long, and always with some degree of horror. One afternoon, however, it occurred to her so forcibly, that, strive as she might, she positively could not repel it. She was seated in the common room, and its only other inmate, it so happened, was her father. He sat with his side towards her; but his head, contrary to his wont, was resting on his open hand, and, though she repeatedly turned her glance upon him, she could not see his face. After a time, she began to think he was asleep; and something prompted her, now she could not be observed, to approach him, and take a close survey of his features.
Light as her step was, Sir Edgar heard her approaching, and looked up. For the first time since the morning following the return of Don Felix, her eyes met his, and she observed, at her first glance, that they were filled with tears.
She had paused when he raised his eyes; but now, banishing her hesitation, she sprang hastily forward, and threw herself at his feet.