HILDEBRAND.

NEW WORK, BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

Preparing for Publication, in 3 vols. 8vo.,

THE OLD TEMPLE:

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF “HILDEBRAND,”
&c. &c.

“Within the Temple hall we were too loud,
The garden here is more convenient.”

Shakspeare.

LONDON:
JOHN MORTIMER, ADELAIDE STREET,
TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

HILDEBRAND:
OR,
THE DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

BY
THE AUTHOR OF “THE KING’S SON.”

Frugal and wise, a Walsingham is thine;
A Drake, who made thee mistress of the sea,
And bore thy name in thunder round the world.
Then flamed thy spirit high; but who can speak
The numerous worthies of the maiden reign?
In Raleigh mark their every glory mix’d;
Raleigh, the scourge of Spain!
Thomson.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:
JOHN MORTIMER, ADELAIDE STREET,
TRAFALGAR SQUARE.
MDCCCXLIV.

LONDON: PRINTED BY HENRY RICHARDS,
BRYDGES-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

CONTENTS

HILDEBRAND.

CHAPTER I.

Life is subject to certain moral influences, arising from external impressions, which are no less mysterious than its elements and progress. Under the operation of these influences, we are prone to overlook them; and instead of watching their workings, and tracing them through all their wonderful and extensive ramifications, we yield unresisting to their pressure, and, without one interposition of our own will, become the passive agents of their effects.

Allowing the existence and constant presence of an overruling Providence, it is not too much to say, that there is no possible situation in which a man can be placed, in this sublunary world, that he will be wholly incompetent to sustain. There is not one influence, whether exciting or depressing, that the human mind cannot check, although it may be unable, in some instances, to reduce it to complete subjection. It is our prostration that gives the sharpest bitterness to sorrow; and prosperity has its greatest dangers (for prosperity is not without dangers, and great ones) from our unwary self-reliance. If we could meet success in a sober spirit, and, while we drink from the cup of fortune, curb its intoxicating inspirations with a recollection of the instability and mere temporariness of worldly possessions, prosperity would have no power to disturb the evenness of our mind, or to contract and freeze up the dignity of our nature. In the same way, if we would but bear in remembrance how unavoidable and transient are our troubles, how utterly pointless the scoffs and contempt and mockery of a selfish world, and, finally, how soon we shall “shuffle off this mortal coil,” adversity would lose its chill, and even the anguish of the sorrowing heart would be materially and sensibly mitigated.

It is by ourselves that the auxiliary and sustaining qualities of our nature are created. It is from our voluntary will, that leading distinction between man and brute (which makes us rational and accountable creatures) that these qualities mainly spring; and it is by the same will alone, humanly speaking, that we can look from the heights of fortune with composure, and meet tribulation without despair.

Nevertheless, the weakness of the human mind is such, on occasions of severe trial, that its will cannot be brought thus to act of its own self, or continue to act unaided. The rightful operation of nature cannot be maintained, or its functions be duly and efficiently discharged, but in perfect and unvarying conformity with her unalterable laws. As it is not the summer alone, but the other seasons also, in their regular rotation, that is necessary to bring forth the fruits of the earth, so the health of the human heart depends on the effective administration of the whole system. Not only our free will, but that sense of right and wrong by which our free will should be governed, and which can always be called up from the lucid depths of the bosom, is an essential support against every trial. Mighty of itself, it leads us, as an unfailing consequence, to rely principally for aid on a still mightier Auxiliary—the eternal and beneficent Dispenser of good and evil.

Even the savage, to whom the wild humanity of the desert offers no law but that of might, and the restraints of civilised life are unknown, is endowed by nature with a perfect consciousness of his free agency; and though, from his degraded position, he is no way subject to any artificial prompture, the attendant sense of a supreme and over-ruling genius is ever before him. Much more sensibly does this intuitive monitor press itself on the faculties of the cultivated mind. In reclaimed man, surrounded by the light of civilization, it inspires at once a confidence and a dread; and, if heedfully and properly regarded, renders him proof to every temptation, and dignified under every sorrow.

When, on the morning after her parting from Hildebrand, Evaline de Neville learned that her father had been removed from the gaol of Exeter to the metropolis, and the cup of pleasure which she had been about to drink was thus dashed unexpectedly from her lips, her grief was deep and bitter; but, excessive as it was, it did not reduce her to despair. She did not, it is true, hear the intelligence with composure, but she met it with fortitude. Her mind seemed suddenly to acquire additional nerve; and through all its varied faculties, and beautiful proportions, to be strengthened and braced up against the pressure of the occasion.

She was alone; and she naturally gave a thought to those estimable friends—for such she considered them—who had been with her on the previous night, and whose presence and assurances had filled her with hope and joy. The reflection served only to render her present loneliness and solitude more painfully apparent. Her bosom was pierced by a new anguish, apart from the grief she felt for her father, as she asked herself where were those friends now? Where was Hildebrand, whose arm, undeterred by the presence of danger, had before lent her such effectual succour? Her eyes filled with tears as she reflected that he was no longer within her call.

Yet, in the midst of all her troubles, she could not but look with tenderness on his welcome image. Even under the hand of affliction, she drew from it the comfort of cheering memories; and (which may appear surprising, if not anomalous) it revived in her heart the thrills of her native buoyancy. She called to mind the significant manner in which he had pressed her hand at parting; and the thought struck her, on the track of this reminiscence, that she might have made an impression on his affections. The first idea which woman conceives of a reciprocated love, under whatever circumstances it may arise, must always be productive of a deep sense of fruition; and, in this instance, it raised in the breast of Evaline a sweet tranquillity, that her passing sorrow could not overcome. After-thoughts might anticipate disappointments, or conjure up fears; but the first felicitous conjecture, springing unbidden to her eye, had none of the gloom of laborious reflection, and was one of unmingled joy and ecstasy.

But if the time had allowed Evaline to pause on Hildebrand’s image, mature meditation, perhaps, would have impressed her with a less favourable view of his disposition, and rendered her expectations less fixed and sanguine. The time, however, was not thus opportune. Her love was no more than a passing thought, though it was sufficient, notwithstanding, to unveil to her eye a new sphere, and make her fully sensible that she did love.

She regarded the situation of her father with the most lively anguish. She knew little of the world, but she was aware, from the little that she did know, that his cause would be tried before prejudiced judges, and a court that regarded every Roman Catholic with avowed distrust. The persecuted will naturally ever speak harshly and bitterly of their oppressors; and she had heard strange stories, at various periods, of outrages perpetrated on Roman Catholics without any provocation, and in violation of every principle of law and right. According to these tales, men were never wanting, at the bidding of the government, to support charges against them by the most barefaced perjury; and, on such corrupt testimony, judges would unscrupulously condemn them to the block or the gibbet. As she thought how easy it would be, by means such as these, and before a partial and bigoted judge, to make her father appear guilty, and so bring his declining life to a violent end, her heart turned cold with horror; and she began to perceive the full extent of the calamity that had so unexpectedly fallen upon her.

Nevertheless she did not despair—not for a moment. She saw, from the very first, that it was no time to hesitate, or to suffer the energies of her mind to be wasted in repining, or crushed by depression. Her heart was sad, and her spirit dejected; but, though she was so deeply and sensibly moved, she met the trying crisis with decision, and a reliance on the protection of Heaven, whatever might be the result, that could not fail to prove a source of cheer and hope.

Her heart was considerably lightened after she had laid its plea before God. On rising from her knees, her bosom became alive to a soothing calmness, which cannot be described; and her brimming eyes were again raised to heaven, with tears of deep and heartfelt gratitude, as she felt that this was but the leading effect of her hardly-uttered prayers.

Reflecting how she could be of service to her father, her first thought naturally inclined her, as a preliminary measure, to repair to London, and make her way to his presence. But she felt that, in consequence of his being a state-prisoner, there might be some difficulty in obtaining access to him; and, therefore, on further consideration, she determined to seek some means of aiding him before she visited his prison. She had a confident hope of succour from Sir Walter Raleigh, but, unfortunately for its realization, she knew not where to apply to that personage, or how to inform him of her father’s situation. While she was pondering on these circumstances, she thought of the letter, or packet—for it evidently contained some enclosures—which had been given to her by Hildebrand; and, in this possession, a new and felicitous resource seemed to open to her. Drawing it from beneath her vest, she proceeded to examine it, and to ascertain, from the evidence furnished by its exterior, what room it would afford her for any hope. But she could form no opinion from the cover; and if she had been disposed to seek further (which she was not), the search would have been equally fruitless. The packet, indeed, had been folded with the greatest care, and, moreover, was secured with two fair seals; and, consequently, she had no ground for conjecture but the direction. It was inscribed, in a bold and distinct hand, to “Master Bernard Gray, at the sign of the Angel alehouse, Lantwell;” and these words, which she deciphered at a glance, were all that its exterior revealed.

She raised the packet to her lips before she re-placed it in her vest. While her lips still rested on it, however, the kiss they were about to exhale was arrested; and a deep blush spread over her face and neck. It was a beautiful manifestation, and showed that, in the bosom of innocence, true modesty is ever alert, and requires no overlooking eye to excite its sweet sensibilities.

After a moment’s deliberation, she resolved to deliver the packet to its direction without delay. Pursuant to this design, she called for Martha Follett; and through that faithful adherent, gave orders to her other servants, who had charge of the carriage and horses, to prepare for their return to Neville Grange. While she was herself preparing to depart, Martha again entered her presence, and, with some appearance of agitation, informed her that her cousin, Don Felix, was without, and sought to speak with her.

“Bid him come in, good Martha,” answered Evaline.

Martha, with a silent curtsy, withdrew; and, the next moment, Don Felix entered.

Evaline did not meet him with her usual friendliness. His conduct towards Hildebrand, with a knowledge of the service that the latter had rendered her and her father, had led her to look upon him in a new light, and, though she was not disposed to judge him harshly, had shown a meanness of spirit that she could not but condemn. On glancing at his face, however, and perceiving that he looked dejected and anxious, her coldness began to relax, and, yielding to the generous impulses of her nature, she extended him her hand.

“’Tis well,” said Don Felix, taking her hand. “I have come to bid thee adieu, Evaline.”

“How meanest thou?” asked Evaline, with some alarm.

“There is a warrant out to arrest me,” answered Don Felix. “It arrived at the Grange last night, with a power from the sheriff; but, by good fortune, I got out by the back way and escaped.”

“Surely, it were better, Sir, to surrender,” said Evaline. “Thou canst not long evade the law.”

“I will evade it altogether,” returned Don Felix. “There is a ship in Topsham harbour, which sails this evening for France; and I will get me aboard her, and flee the country. I can make my way to Spain overland.”

“Oh, no! prithee leave us not now, Felix,” cried Evaline, forgetting all her dislike in her extreme distress, “Thou art innocent of any crime. Wherefore shouldst thou flee?”

“An’ my stay could avail thee, Evaline, or good Sir Edgar, no hazard of mine own self should make me flee,” answered the Spaniard; “but thou knowest that it would not.”

“None, none!” said Evaline. “Yet to be alone—Oh! I have now no comforter on earth!”

There was a brief pause. Though Evaline knew that the stay of Don Felix would afford her no direct advantage, his desertion of her at this moment, when, for aught he knew, she stood alone, afflicted her severely. The world was new to her, and she was not yet aware, what she was so soon to experience, that, in the season of trouble and adversity, friends fall off, and avoid our fallen and declining estate as they would a pestilent contagion. He is, indeed, a friend, above the ordinary meaning of the term, who will meet us in adversity with the same cordiality and welcome, not to say eagerness, that we called forth in the day of our prosperity.

If Evaline had imagined that Don Felix was really in danger, she would have been the first, at any risk to herself, to have urged him to flee. But she was firmly of opinion that the hazard he incurred would be but small; and, which was probably the case, that his fears, as he had expressed them, were more urgent and startling than the occasion would warrant. The conclusion she arrived at was decidedly to his disadvantage; and, comparing his conduct with that of Hildebrand, to whom she and her father were perfect strangers, but who, nevertheless, had befriended them at their need, and his own imminent peril, her unfavourable impression of his character was confirmed, and her previous regard for him entirely alienated.

She had paused in her reply to his last remark; but her hesitation, if such it might be called, was only momentary, and, before Don Felix could make it available, she resumed her interrupted speech.

“But thou mayst go, Sir,” she said, in an indignant tone. “I have no right to keep thee here, an’ it bring thee into danger.”

“How could my staying avail thee, Evaline?” replied Don Felix.

“I tell thee, Sir, thou canst go,” rejoined Evaline.

“Ay,” returned Don Felix, knitting his brows, “I hear that the nameless stranger has returned, and he, mayhap, will win from thee more gracious words.”

Evaline, without shrinking before his glance, coloured deeply at this insinuation.

“I would have thee be guarded in what thou sayest, Don Felix,” she said, angrily, “or thou mayst rue it.”

“Well, let it pass! let it pass!” answered Don Felix. “Tell me only, dost thou love him?”

“This is not to be borne,” cried Evaline. “What warrant hast thou, Sir, to ask me such a question?”

“Thy father hath promised me thy hand,” said Don Felix. “But the time presses on me now. When we meet again, we shall be more at liberty. Adieu!”

Evaline, overpowered by her resentment, rendered no reply to his farewell. His announcement that her father designed to make him her husband, instead of conciliating her, furnished her with a new reason for holding him in dislike; and, under the pressure of that dislike, she suffered him to depart without a word.

Her horror at the prospect which would arise from a marriage with him was unbounded. To be wedded to a man whom she could never love, and be inforced by her conscience to thoughts and feelings that, cling to them as she might, would be negatived by her heart, was nothing less than utter ruin and destruction. That her own father, whom she loved so tenderly, and for whose advantage she would gladly lay down her very life, would consign her to such a fate, she felt to be impossible. He might, it is true, have such a marriage in contemplation; but he would allow its settlement to rest with herself; and her resolution to oppose it, by the adoption of every means that equity would sanction, was fixed and unalterable.

She was still pondering on the subject, when she was informed that, conformably to her orders, the carriage was in waiting, and everything had been prepared for her departure. She had effected all her personal arrangements, and, having nothing further to detain her, she quitted her chamber, and proceeded to take her seat in the carriage. Martha, at her desire, seated herself by her side, and, after a brief interval, the carriage was put in motion, and they set out on their return to the Grange.

It was evening by the time they arrived at their destination. The melancholy light of the hour, which was just beginning to be tinged with the gloom of night, and its solemn stillness, undisturbed by the least breeze, had a depressing effect on the spirits; and Evaline felt it severely. As she passed through the avenue-gate, and caught a glimpse of the dejected countenance of the old porter, who, with his gray locks floating on the air, stood uncovered to receive her, she could not but remember what different feelings had animated her when she last entered that avenue, and how the happiness of that time was greater than the misery of the present. The anguish and bitterness of the reflection, in the gloom of the surrounding scene, made her shudder; and, for a moment, unbraced her fortitude, and clouded her every hope.

The whole household had assembled to receive her at the hall-door. On entering the hall, she looked round upon them separately, intending, with her customary forgetfulness of herself, to give a kind word to each. But observing that anxiety for her was impressed on every face, and sympathy in every eye, her words stuck in her throat; and she was obliged to turn away without speaking.

As she was passing to an inner room, she discerned two strangers, of whom she had no knowledge, and who appeared to be at variance with the household, standing in the rear. Their appearance somewhat surprised her, and, with a view of ascertaining who they were, she came to a pause, and looked round for an explanation. One of the servants, perceiving her object, hereupon stepped forward, and, in a hesitating voice, proceeded to give her the information she sought.

“These be two of the sheriff’s folk, lady,” he said. “Near a dozen of them are here, with a warrant to apprehend Don Felix.”

On thus learning that the house was in possession of the officers of the law, Evaline felt a thrill of fear shoot through her bosom, apparently arising from no defined source, that she could by no means repress. Anxious to conceal her discomposure, she resumed her steps, and passed straight to her chamber.

The faithful Martha, with a heart no less dejected, attended her thither, and, without waiting her directions, assisted her to take off her walking-dress. Having effected her divesture, she left her to herself for a while, and proceeded to procure her some refreshments. In expectation of her arrival, a slight repast, such as she was thought most likely to favour, had been prepared for her; and this was shortly set out on the table of her chamber.

Evaline mechanically partook of the meal; but, eating without appetite, and merely to support nature, was no way invigorated thereby. By the time that her repast was finished, the evening had sunk into night; and, aroused by the increasing darkness, she began to meditate how she could deliver Hildebrand’s packet, on which she rested such great hopes, without further delay.

She did not like to trust its delivery to any third party. Although the walk to Lantwell was not a short one, she would not have hesitated, at another time, to have carried it thither herself; but to undertake such a mission at night, over a lonely and secluded route, was a task of danger. It is true, she might secure ample protection against any harm, in the shape of insult or violence, by taking with her one of the servants; but the presence of the sheriff’s minions required that she should make her egress unobserved. Indeed, she doubted not that she was herself closely watched; and that her own movements, even when she was unattended by any servant, would be observed with suspicion, and followed with jealousy.

Considering all these circumstances, she ultimately resolved to venture out on the undertaking herself. At first, indeed, she thought of securing the companionship of Martha, but, on further consideration, she reflected that, if need were, that individual could not afford her any protection, and that two persons would not pass unseen so easily as one; and, on these grounds, the project appeared impolitic. She could not conceal from herself that the company of Martha would render her more confident, but she was aware, nevertheless, that this confidence would not bear a scrutiny, since the resolution of Martha was even less than her own. The trial, to a girl of her habits and disposition, was a great one; but the emergency also was a great one; and, as has been stated, she finally determined to set out on the mission herself.

Having come to this conclusion, the next object that engaged her attention, preparatory to carrying it into effect, was how to pass out unobserved. After a short pause, she resolved to don an old cloak of Martha’s, with a long hood, that was lying on a contiguous chair; and, thus disguised, watch for a favourable moment to steal forth. No sooner did the idea occur to her, than, catching up the cloak, she proceeded to put it in execution.

Throwing the cloak over her fair shoulders, she drew the hood, which was round and full, close over her brow, and then sallied forth. She descended the stairs beyond without seeing any one, or, as far as she could tell, being seen herself. She had no light; but the night, though it was now growing late, was not dark; and, on reaching the hall, she was easily able to make her way to the rearward door.

The door, which was fortunately unfastened, led into a small porch, opening into the park. Evaline, gratified that she had so far escaped notice, entered the porch with tolerable composure; and, briefly commending herself to the protection of Heaven, she ventured to pass into the park.

There was no one about. Drawing her cloak closely round her, she directed her steps to that walk which, it may be remembered, has been before mentioned in this history, and which opened into the public footpath to Lantwell. She had just entered the walk, when, pausing to look round, she heard a voice calling to her to stop.

She resumed her progress at her utmost speed. Her heart beat audibly, and her fears, which the abruptness of the alarm had raised beyond endurance, almost arrested her breath, but she ran on still. She imagined every successive shrub to be an ambushed enemy, and, as she passed along, she was afraid to look about her, but kept her eyes straight on her path, lest she should discern on either hand some terror. At last, wearied and breathless, she arrived at the public footway, and there ventured to pause.

A full minute elapsed before she had completely recovered her breath. Meanwhile, her ears were on the alert, and her attention alive to the least noise. To her surprise, however, no sounds of pursuit were audible, and, after a brief interval, she set forwards again.

Once in the footpath, which lay across an open part of the park, her view was less interrupted; and consequently, though the night was somewhat cloudy, and prevented her seeing any great distance, she was able to satisfy herself that no person was about. She pursued her way, therefore, with more confidence, though still with a hasty step; and shortly arrived at the park-boundary.

As she was mounting the stile that divided the park from the high-road, at the foot of Lantwell-hill, she remembered that the “Angel” alehouse, where her mission was to end, was not situate within the village, but on its extreme limit, where the road fell into Lantwell-wood. Unless, therefore, she made a considerable detour, she would have to pass through the churchyard, over the path we have had occasion to mention before, in order to arrive at her destination; and, remembering this, she paused to consider which of the two routes she should pursue.

Though endued with uncommon good sense, she had some spice of the superstitious qualms and fears that mark her religion, and, to speak the truth, were rather allowed and encouraged by the age; and it was not without hesitation that she ultimately resolved on taking the route by the churchyard. Having thus made up her mind, she once more set forward, and proceeded at a quick pace up Lantwell-hill.

She paused a while on gaining the churchyard-gate. She almost felt inclined, indeed, at one moment, to turn into the road again, and pursue the route through the village. But her irresolution quickly subsided, and though her fears, with the terrible excitement they gave rise to, remained, she devoutly crossed herself, and passed into the churchyard.

She scarcely dared to breathe during her progress onward. Nevertheless, she reached the further angle of the old church, where the path took another direction, without seeing anything to alarm her. She was just turning the angle, when, looking on one side, towards an abutting portion of the church, she descried a tall figure, arrayed in white, rising slowly from behind a grave-post; and she was instantly rooted to the spot.

There are sources of terror which, though they may impend no peril to the person, will affect the spirit of the most resolute, and involve the liveliest faculties in fright and consternation. Yet, whether it is that we are sustained by despair, or that those superior and invisible intelligences, which some believe to attend upon us, like ministering angels, from the cradle to the grave, lend the soul a new influence, this extreme of dread generally finds the mind self-possessed, and the senses more than ever active.

Evaline, on observing the object described, lost all power over her limbs and person, but her senses were perfectly collected. She felt her hair rising on end, and a cold perspiration, which seemed to chill and freeze up every source of motion, spread itself over her whole frame; but, for all this, her mind was painfully alert. She distinguished every individual outline of the fearful and ghostly figure. It rose gradually upright, and then, standing quite still, looked her straight in the face.

“The cross of Christ surround us!” exclaimed Evaline, in a hollow, solemn voice.

“Ho, there! have no fear!” cried the cause of her horror. “’Tis I—Bernard Gray!”

The weight of death was lifted off the heart of Evaline. With the velocity of thought, her hands clasped themselves together, and her eyes were raised gratefully to heaven.

Nevertheless, it was not without some fear that she found herself in the presence of the singular man whom she had come to seek, and who, ignorant of her mission, was now advancing towards her. Her fear increased as he drew nearer; and when she was able to survey him closely, which a lighted lanthorn that he carried well enabled her to do, it almost deprived her of speech.

His appearance, certainly, was far from being prepossessing. His face was deadly pale, and this, perhaps, was the more remarkable, in the gloomy light that prevailed, from the unnatural lustre of his eyes, the rays of which could almost be seen. The upper part of his body, above his waist, appeared to have no covering but his shirt; but, from his having a large sheet turned over his head and shoulders, in the fashion of a penance-garment, which hid it from observation, his precise dress could not be ascertained. The arm that sustained the lanthorn, however, and which was pushed out of the folds of the sheet, displayed only his shirt-sleeve, and, all things considered, this gave the conjecture warranty. His feet were bare; and his murrey-coloured hose and hanse-lines, or trousers, which could be seen through the sheet, with his drapery, and his pale features, formed altogether a figure that, remembering the locality, could not be viewed without great discomposure.

Evaline waited his approach in the utmost trepidation.

“Who have we here?” he demanded, on coming up with her.

He raised his lanthorn as he spoke, and, holding it out before him, glanced inquiringly in her face.

“Be not afeard! be not afeard!” he said, perceiving that she met his gaze with the greatest alarm. “Thou wilt have no hurt at my hands.”

These words, and the tone in which they were uttered, which was kind and gentle, somewhat reassured Evaline; and after a brief pause, she ventured to reply.

“If thou be Bernard Gray,” she said, in a tremulous tone, “I have a packet for thee, from Master Hildebrand Clifford.”

“Ah!” cried Bernard, eagerly, “where is he?”

“Alas, he is far away now!” answered Evaline. “Howbeit, before his departure, he bade me, if I should need succour, to give this packet to thee, and thou wouldst thenceforward stand my friend.”

Bernard, without making a reply, took from her hand the proffered packet, and, at the same time, again gazed earnestly in her face. As he did so, his eyes gradually lit up with anger, and he seemed, from his altered manner, and the change that passed over his pale face, suddenly to regard her with a rooted enmity. Indeed, he was now sensible who she was, and, in her pallid but lovely features, he recognized the Popish heiress of Neville Grange.

“Well,” he said, on making this discovery, “thou shall hear how he commends thee to me.”

Thus speaking, he tore open the packet, and proceeded to give his promise effect. There were three enclosures; but the upmost one, though carefully folded, was unsealed, and engaged his attention first. Thrusting the others under his arm, he held the one specified up to the light; and in a tone which was originally bitter, but which gradually grew mild and agitated, read these words:—

“To my right trusty and singular good friend, Master Bernard Gray, at the sign of the Angel, these:—

“Worthy Bernard.—Herein thou wilt find my last will and testament, bequeathing to thee, in case I should hap to die, the whole of my effects, with my entire right and interest, in the entail of Clifford Place; and a letter of trust to my noble friend and patron, the renowned Sir Walter Raleigh. And now, good Bernard, I prefer to thee the bearer hereof, and I beseech thee, by the duty thou owest God, and thy love for my murdered mother, to give her the hand of faith and fellowship, and in all things, to the very death, to stand her abettor, as thou wouldst do service to thy loving friend,

“Hildebrand Clifford.”

The last few lines of the letter, which he read in a tremulous voice, awakened in Bernard’s bosom the deepest emotion. It was evident, too, that his emotion was of a conflicting character, and did not leave him in full possession of his judgment. The passions were mingled in his face; and his naturally kind impulses, which the sex and loveliness of Evaline, no less than his attachment to Hildebrand, and the pathetic appeal of the letter, had not failed to invoke, were restrained and pressed down by his prejudices, and his intentions lost by indecision.

It was a full minute before he spoke. By that time, however, he seemed to have made up his mind, and the hesitation described was no longer manifest.

“I cannot help thee,” he said: “thou art a Papist.”

Evaline, whom his altered manner had already greatly disturbed, heard these words with a thrill of despair.

“Then, I will bid thee farewell, Sir,” she replied, in an agitated voice.

“Hold!” exclaimed Bernard. “He hath charged me close—close—by my love for his mother. And, faith, thou art a most fair lady, even in the guise thou wearest now. I would thou wast aught but a Papist!”

“The blessed Virgin keep my faith whole!” ejaculated Evaline.

“Couldst thou hold it through the fire?” asked Bernard, earnestly.

“With God’s help, Sir,” answered Evaline.

“I fell short!” cried Bernard, in a tone of anguish. “They had me up; they fixed me to the stake; the fagots, steaming with pitch, were set about me; and, before a spark was kindled, my faith gave way! Like Peter, I denied my creed; I swore I knew not the man; and they let me go! Oh, that the trial might come again! Oh, that I might meet the fire, with its thousand torments, only once more!”

His voice sank into a murmur of supplication as he thus spoke, and his agitation, though it was still excessive, was of a kind more calculated to excite compassion. Evaline, as he ceased speaking, could not repress an exclamation of sympathy.

“Dost pity me?” said Bernard. “If thou knew’st how I have mourned it, thou wouldst think me reclaimed. Summer and winter, every night, do I come to that grave barefoot, and pray God’s pardon. Not the last fire that shall ever blaze, I heartily believe, could make me again deny my sweet Saviour.”

“God keep thee in a good mind!” answered Evaline. “Farewell!”

“Hold!” cried Bernard, laying his hand on her arm. “Dost know I could save thy father?”

“Canst thou?” inquired Evaline, with great earnestness. “But if even thou canst,” she added, mournfully, “thou wilt not.”

“What of him that sent thee to me?” said Bernard. “Dost thou not know, from the opposition of your creeds, that there is between you a great bar, and that thou shalt never wed him?”

“Wed him?” echoed Evaline, tremulously.

“Thou lovest him!” answered Bernard.

Notwithstanding her excessive alarm, Evaline, whether because she was taken by surprise, or from some more secret cause, could not repress a slight blush, and her eyes sank before the earnest gaze of her interlocutor.

“Thou lovest him!” repeated the latter. “And for thy sake, lady, I will even befriend a Papist. Thy father shall be set free.”

“Alas, Sir!” answered Evaline, “he is now, I fear me, beyond thy help. He has been removed to London.”

“Go thou also to London, then,” returned Bernard. “I will follow thee; and again I promise thee, on my troth, he shall be given his liberty.”

The confident tone in which he spoke, with the assurance she had received from Hildebrand, on his first naming him to her, that he would be able to render her the most eminent services, and which assurance now came to her recollection, did not pass Evaline unheeded. His altered manner, too, which had suddenly become kind and compassionate, had an effect upon her; and, being so different from what she had looked for, called up in her bosom the liveliest expectations. Nevertheless, her voice faltered in her reply.

“Oh, thank you! thank you!” was all she said.

“Didst thou come hither by thyself, lady?” resumed Bernard.

“Even so,” answered Evaline. “The sheriff’s men are at the Grange, waiting to apprehend my cousin, Don Felix di Corva; and I thought it best to steal out unnoticed.”

“Thou didst well, and bravely,” returned Bernard. “But ’tis a lonely road, and, if thou wilt give me leave, I will be thy conductor home.”

“Thou wilt make my heart light, an’ thou wilt,” said Evaline, eagerly.

“No more!” answered Bernard. “Let us on!”

They set forward accordingly, and, without resuming their discourse, proceeded to the road. Thence they passed down the adjoining hill, at the extremity of the churchyard, into Neville Park, and so on to the vicinity of the mansion.

Bernard drew up when they came nigh the mansion.

“I will stay here, lady,” he said, “and watch thee in. When dost thou purpose to go to London?”

“To-morrow,” answered Evaline. “I know not where I shall be lodged; but thou canst learn that, if thou wilt take the trouble to inquire, of Master Gilbert, the attorney, in the Inner Temple.”

“I will not fail thee,” returned Hildebrand. “God give thee a good night!”

“And thee also,” replied Evaline.

They parted with this benediction. Evaline, wrapping her cloak close round her, passed at a quick step towards the house; and Bernard watched her progress from the mouth of the walk. After a little time, he saw her arrive at the hall-door, and, without meeting any obstacle, effect an entrance.

Although she had thus obtained ingress, however, Evaline did not enter the hall unobserved. On opening the door, she encountered no less than three persons. One of these, who held a lighted lamp in his hand, was a domestic; but the other two were of the party of the sheriff. They did not, however, as she had apprehended, offer her any interruption; and, having procured a light from the servant, and bade him go in quest of Martha, she passed unmolested to her chamber.

There, to her great satisfaction, she was shortly joined by Martha. She immediately discovered to that person, in a few words, the adventure that she had just been engaged in; and this preliminary being achieved, they discussed together its probable results.

CHAPTER II.

Great and notable events, involving consequences of the highest importance, often arise from circumstances seemingly insignificant. If, in life’s decline, we look back on its first and earlier stages, it will not unfrequently appear that the incident which gave the deciding bend and direction to our fortunes, and, in the end, fixed our prospects and position in the world, was itself so excessively trifling that it passed unheeded. The reflection ought to afford us a high and invaluable lesson. As we believe that nothing has been created without a purpose, so we may suppose, on the same grounds, that every prompture of the human heart has its effects, and that the very least of man’s acts accomplishes a certain object. In the onward progress of the mind, this may be too slight to incur notice, or it may, as has been remarked, give the leading tone and impulse to our life; but the issue is the same, and is alike infallible and decisive.

If Shedlock had paid Sir Walter Raleigh the sum he engaged to contribute towards his expedition to America, on the conditions stipulated between them, at the time their agreement was drawn up, Sir Walter would have had no occasion to visit Shedlock’s countinghouse, and thus, in all probability, would not have been brought in contact with Hildebrand Clifford. If this providential circumstance had not ultimately led him to Hildebrand’s prison, and, pursuing its train of consequences, subsequently caused him to regard Sir Edgar and Evaline de Neville as that person’s particular friends, and the victims of a vile persecution, he might have beheld Sir Edgar suffer without sympathy, and with a conviction that he was guilty of the heinous crime imputed to him.

But the course of events was destined to operate otherwise. On discovering Hildebrand in the prison, he learned from that cavalier, in answer to his inquiries, how he had been engaged since he left his ship, and thus ascertained the facts of the affair which had led to Sir Edgar’s arrest. From that moment he became Sir Edgar’s fast friend. As has been shown, he accompanied Hildebrand in his visit to his prison; and there, preparatory to taking more effective measures in his behalf, revealed his friendly intentions by promising to procure his liberation.

The excitement arising from the departure of his favourite ship, which was described heretofore, did not banish from his mind his generous promise. On returning to Topsham Quay, after bidding farewell to Hildebrand, and seeing his gallant bark sail on her voyage, he began to consider how he could carry it out; and, as a first step towards this end, communicated it to the two friends who accompanied him.

One of the individuals referred to appeared to be not incompetent to give him good counsel. His countenance, though not handsome, was strikingly intelligent; and only for a scornful curl of the nether lip, which frequently expanded into a haughty and decided sneer, and was always repulsive, would have been prepossessing. His gait, however, on which the appearance so greatly depends, was careless and clumsy, and was by no means set off by his attire, which was shabby in the extreme. His years, judging from his hair and complexion, could not have been more than thirty, if they were even so many; yet his forehead was crossed, immediately below his hair, with several distinct wrinkles, and his bushy brows were already overlaid with the weight and cares of age.

The other cavalier had just attained that interesting period of life which lies between youth and manhood. His proud and graceful step, and elegant dress, which was arranged with the most perfect accuracy, engaged attention at once; yet they were less remarkable than his personal beauty. He possessed this, indeed, in such an extraordinary degree, that Nature seemed to have endowed him with all her charms, and to have left nothing undone that could make him an object of admiration.

They both listened to Sir Walter’s communication with earnest attention; but the younger cavalier, whether from natural warmth of heart, or personal attachment to the narrator, evidently was the more interested of the two.

“By my word,” he cried, when Sir Walter had finished his narrative, “I pity the knight’s fair daughter! Cannot his worship be set free at once?”

“Faith, my Lord of Essex,” said the other cavalier, “thou wouldst make marvellous quick work on’t, as a fair lady is concerned. An’ the knight have no better evidence of his innocence than we have heard from Sir Walter, I doubt if he will be set free at all.”

“Dost thou really think so, Sir Robert Cecil?” asked Sir Walter.

“Faith, Sir Walter, I think he will be hanged,” answered Sir Robert Cecil, with a smile. “But it gives one no good odour, in these days of peril, to be mixed up with such folk; and I would have thee wash thy hands of them.”

Sir Walter, whether from surprise, or sheer vexation, bit his lip on hearing this remark, but said nothing. His companion, however, with the unguarded impetuosity of youth, cast all considerations of policy aside, and gave his feelings utterance.

“Shame on thee, Sir Robert Cecil!” he exclaimed, angrily, “for giving such counsel. I hold Popery to be a damnable error; but, ’fore God, I would no more see a Papist wronged than I would do wrong to a true Christian.”

“And dost thou know, my fair Lord of Essex, if wrong hath been done to this Papist?” demanded Sir Robert Cecil. “By my troth, one would think, from the discourse followed by thee, that justice held not an even course in the land. Thou shouldst measure thy words more prudently, or, in some evil hour, they may be reported to the Queen’s Highness.”

“What I have a mind to say,” cried the young Earl, petulently, “I would say in her Highness’s presence—ay, or in her father’s either, were he living.”

Sir Walter Raleigh, alarmed at the Earl’s indiscreet expressions, here laid his hand gently on his arm, and, having thus induced him to pause, sought to give his words a harmless interpretation.

“So might any one, an’ their thoughts were as loyal and dutiful as thine,” he said. “But let us have no more hard words. I must help this knight; for, besides that I am inclined thereto by my will, he hath security for my aid in my plighted word. Thou art with me, I know, my Lord Essex; and if thou wilt make it a request to Sir Robert Cecil here, we will even have him also; for I dare swear, from the regard he hath for thee, that he can refuse thee nothing.”

“That can I not,” murmured Sir Robert Cecil.

Whether he intended it, or not, his words, though hardly distinguishable, reached the ears of the young Earl; and the haughty look that had just mounted to his face, as if to say it was out of the question for him to make any request, immediately vanished.

“Faith,” he said, laying his hand familiarly on Sir Robert’s shoulder, which, from his superior height, he could do easily,—“Faith, I verily believe thou lovest me. Give us thy hand in this matter, then, as thou wouldst do me a service.”

“Have with thee, my hopeful Earl!” exclaimed Sir Robert. “But before we can further the design, we must to London.”

“I fear me, it is even so,” observed Sir Walter Raleigh. “I will but write a word of cheer to the imprisoned knight, and, with your good leave, we will then on to London.”

His two friends agreed to his proposal, and their discourse, which they did not allow to stop, thereupon passed to other topics. They were still conversing, when they arrived in front of an hostel, at the extremity of the long, straggling town, where, on the previous night, they had baited their horses. After a short conference, they entered the hostel, and proceeded to a room in its rear. Here, by the direction of Sir Walter, they were speedily supplied with a substantial breakfast, which they discussed at their leisure, and with all that hilarity and enjoyment, springing from a pursuit of the passing moment, which attend on health and appetite.

On the conclusion of their meal, Sir Walter, according to his previously-expressed intention, wrote to Sir Edgar de Neville, repeating his promise to procure him his liberty, and informing him, in a few words, how he purposed to pursue it. He entrusted the delivery of the note to one of his servants, and, not knowing that Sir Edgar had been removed, charged him to leave it at the gaol of Exeter, and then ride after him to London.

He and his two friends did not tarry long after the servant’s departure. Interchanging a few remarks on the subject of his mission, they rose from the breakfast-table, and proceeded to arrange the preliminaries of their journey to town. These were soon settled; and, after a short interval, they sallied forth from the hostel; and, mounting their horses, and attended by their several grooms, they set out for the metropolis.

Three days elapsed before they arrived at that place. On the third evening subsequent to their departure from Exeter, they came to Durham House, in the Strand, where Sir Walter Raleigh resided. There, after partaking of a light supper, his two friends took leave of Sir Walter, and, with the understanding that they were to meet again on the morrow, departed to their respective lodgings.

It was at the palace of Queen Elizabeth, at Westminster, that the friends had arranged to meet; and the following morning found Sir Walter on his way to the court at an early hour. Early as it was, however (and the clock of Westminster had not yet struck ten), the road to the palace was already a scene of bustle, and presented to view passengers of every order. From these persons Sir Walter received many a hearty cheer as he passed along, which he acknowledged with a graceful bow, and occasionally, when the cheering was accompanied by the waving of some fair one’s handkerchief (which was several times the case), by doffing his plumed hat, and bowing to his saddle-pow. Thus he rode along for some distance, when, just as he came in sight of the palace, he was overtaken by another horseman, who appeared to be almost equally in favour with the passing people.

The stranger was a slender young man, seemingly about eighteen years of age. He might, indeed, be two or three years older; but the freshness of his complexion, and his exceedingly slight figure (though the mould of his figure was unexceptionable), would hardly support such a conjecture. He was dressed with great splendour; but it was not his costly habits, but the charms which he derived from nature, that made his appearance imposing; and he needed no meretricious attractions to prepossess every unenvious eye in his favour.

“A fair morning to your worship!” he cried, on coming up with Sir Walter. “What fell and desperate design hast thou now in hand, that thus thou bearest down, equipped with all the art of a lover, on the court of our virgin Queen?”

“Now, fair befall thee!” replied Sir Walter, with a merry smile; “but thy love for worthy Will Shakspear, an’ it go on at this length, will one day turn thy head, and thou shalt finally sink into an absolute player. But, what news? what news, I prithee?”

“News?” cried his companion. “News that will make thy heart glad, renowned knight! Sweet Will Shakspear—”

“By my lady’s hand,” exclaimed Sir Walter, laughing, “I would have wagered my good steed against an old wife’s thimble, which to me were as nothing, that the sum and burthen of thy news would be only Will Shakspear! But let us hear it—let us hear it, my trusty Southampton; for, after all, what concerns Will, concerns the whole world.”

“Now, do I love thee for those words!” cried the young nobleman, his cheeks mantling with a flush of pleasure. “But, to tell thee my news, renowned knight! Thou must know, first, that Master Shakspear will this day bring out a new play, at his noble playhouse of the Globe; and, secondly, that the Queen’s Highness, on my special petition, purposes to grace the performance with her royal presence.”

“That is right welcome news, indeed,” answered Sir Walter; “but tell me, I prithee, what is the theme and burthen of the play?”

“An admirable good theme,” replied the Earl of Southampton: “no other, indeed, than the most pathetic history of Imogen, which was first made known to the world by old Boccaccio, in his right famous Decameron.”

“I mind the story well,” observed Sir Walter, “and, in good sooth, ’tis a marvellous excellent one. But see! yonder is Master Harrington, an’ I be not mistaken.”

“Faith, is it!” answered the Earl. “Let us on.”

Without more ado, they spurred forward, and soon came up with the individual who, at the distance of some hundred yards, had attracted their attention. When they first distinguished him, he was standing at the palace gate; but, hearing the clatter of their horses’ hoofs, he turned round, and observed them approaching. As they drew nigh, he advanced a few paces to meet them; and with the air of a courtier, which his elegant apparel, and youthful and engaging features, well supported, exchanged with them a cordial and friendly greeting. Sir Walter and the Earl then alighted; and, resigning their steeds to the care of their grooms, who had ridden up to receive them, took Master Harrington by the arm, and thus passed together into the palace.

As they entered the palace-hall, they encountered a large circle of courtiers, with most of whom, if one might form a conjecture from their polite greetings, they appeared to be on the footing of friends. With some, however, they exchanged only a formal bow, and evidently sought to avoid acquaintance. They were about to press forward to the great staircase, when the entrance of another cavalier, who seemed to be an object of general respect, led them to prolong their pause. He was an elderly man—indeed, an old one; and his habits, which were grave and homely, corresponded with his advanced years. There was, however, no trace of slovenliness in his appearance, and his deportment was still noble and dignified. A smile rose to his lips as he discovered Sir Walter Raleigh; and with more of the gait of a soldier, than the light air of a courtier, which ruled the movements of those around, he advanced to salute him.

“Knight! knight, I have been discoursing of thee the whole morning!” he cried, shaking Sir Walter by the hand. “I promise thee, that staid Cecil, with whom my converse was carried on, hath given me such a report of thy brave expedition to America, as hath pleased me mightily. Ah, my Lord Southampton! the good time of the day to your Lordship! Master Harrington, give thee a fair morning! how go the sports at the Paris-garden?”

“Faith, my Lord Sussex, I have changed my bent,” answered Harrington. “’Tis Shakspear now, my Lord—Shakspear is your modern vogue.”

“I had rather see a good bear-fight,” said the Earl of Sussex. “Yet, for my Lord Southampton’s sake, I will even go see this notable player to-day. But do you attend her Highness?”

“We are with you, my Lord,” replied Sir Walter Raleigh.

The Earl, availing himself of the precedence which his friends opened for him, hereupon stepped forward, and led the way to an upper saloon. There, in the course of a little time, as they waited for the appearance of the Queen, his party associated with several other courtiers, and were shortly afterwards joined by Essex and Robert Cecil. They had just received this accession, when another party, headed by an elderly, but still very elegant cavalier, entered the saloon, and proceeded to its further end. They passed by the friends of Sussex, who were standing in the centre of the saloon, without extending to them the slightest notice; and seemingly so intent on the discourse of their leader, which the light laugh that occasionally broke from them announced to be of a lively nature, that the personages around did not incur their observation. For all his fluent discourse, however, there was a settled melancholy on the handsome countenance of their leader, and, whenever his eye could be viewed observantly, a tameness and restlessness in his gaze, that spoke his mirth to be hollow, and his ease and lightness of heart merely affected. As he passed along, no few eyes regarded him with scorn and contempt; and it was evident that, though he might yet enjoy the favour of the Queen, the wretch who had murdered one wife, and attempted the life of a second,—who had submitted to be abused by Arundel, and cuffed by Norfolk,—no longer swayed at will the destinies of the court.

“Methinks, my Lord of Leicester looks somewhat grim at thee, my fair Lord,” whispered Sir Robert Cecil to Essex.

“I marked it not,” replied Essex. “An’ thou art sure he did, I will presently make him say wherefore.”

“Hist, my dear Lord!” returned Cecil. “Her Highness approaches!”

While he was yet speaking, the doors at the end of the saloon, where Leicester and his party had posted themselves, were thrown open, and the ladies of the Queen’s household made their appearance at the aperture. Following them, a few paces in their wake, came the Queen herself, walking under a canopy, borne by the four ladies of her chambers, and attended, in the rearward, by four more ladies, who probably were maids of honour.

The ladies were all dressed, according to the practice of the royal household, with great simplicity; but this did not contract or reduce the effect of their beauty, but rather served, by its freedom from meretricious attractions, to exhibit their personal charms to advantage. Their simplicity of attire, however, had not been adopted by the Queen; and, whether that she wished to be singular, or had really a love for finery, she was dressed with extravagant splendour. Her ruff, or frill, of the most costly lace, was raised almost to the level of her mouth; but its excessive height, it must be acknowledged, was not unsuited to her aspect, and it lent the commanding tone of her features a visible support. Her stomacher of white satin, sprinkled with diamonds, was enclosed by a robe of blue velvet, descending into a long train; and, as if the rich velvet were not itself costly enough, this robe, or gown, was loaded with pieces of gold, wrought into the shape of various animals.

Though she was now long past her fiftieth year, Elizabeth, on the whole, did not misbecome her magnificent apparel. Her form, though impaired, was still graceful, and, as much from her habits as from nature, full of dignity; and her face presented very many traces of its former charms.

A murmur of “God save your Highness!” not loud, but deep, ran through the assembly as she entered, but she rendered no acknowledgment of the salutation, if such it may be called, till she had passed to a high seat, raised a step or two from the floor, near the middle of the saloon. Then, sitting down, she bowed gracefully round, and, as her eye fell on the Earl of Leicester, accompanied her bow with a kind smile.

There was a pause for a moment, when the Queen broke the silence.

“Is my Lord of Sussex in presence?” she asked.

“At your Highness’s command,” answered Sussex.

“We have a charge for thee, then,” pursued the Queen. “The captain of our guard, after urgent importunity, obtained our licence to be absent for a week, which expired on the morn of yesterday. As he did not then return, we direct thee, in our name, to have him diligently sought for, and, when found, attached as a deserter.”

“That will I do straightway, my liege,” answered Sussex, smiling. And, turning round, he laid his hand on Sir Walter Raleigh, who was standing directly behind him, and added:—“Sir Walter Raleigh, I attach thee, in the name of our Sovereign Lady, as a false knight, and a deserter.”

“I appeal from thee to the clemency of her Highness!” cried Sir Walter Raleigh.

And pushing past the Earl, who seemed willingly to give way to him, he sprang towards the Queen’s chair, and threw himself on one knee at her feet.

“A boon! a boon, dread Sovereign!” he exclaimed.

“By my father’s hand, no!” answered Elizabeth. “No! no! Thou shalt be punished, deserter, to the very stretch of my prerogative. Henceforth thou shalt forfeit thy liberty altogether. To prove that I speak earnestly, I now charge thee, first, to attend me to the Globe playhouse; thence to Greenwich; afterwards—”

“Oh, thanks! thanks, my gracious Queen!” cried Sir Walter.

“By my faith, the knave takes his sentence as a great boon!” exclaimed the Queen, with a look of gratification. “I would be sworn, now, instead of putting on him a heavy punishment, I have even dealt him a guerdon.”

“Indeed, my liege,” cried one of the ladies, “I have heard him say, more times than one, that he could not live out of your Highness’s presence.”

“I have heard him swear to ’t,” cried another lady.

“And, what your Highness will regard more,” said the Earl of Sussex, “I believe he swore true.”

“A word from my Lord Sussex makes up the game,” observed the Earl of Leicester.

“My Lord Leicester,” began Sussex, haughtily—

“Hold!” cried the Queen. “Dare any to bandy words here? Soft answers, an’ you please, my Lords! As for thee, knight,” she added, in her former bantering tone, to Sir Walter, “thou mayst now rise, but thy sentence must have full force. Now for the playhouse, my lords! the playhouse!”

With a murmur of “Room for the Queen! room for her Highness!” the courtiers swept back on either side; and Elizabeth, leaning on the arm of the Earl of Leicester, and followed by her ladies, passed down the saloon between them. As she proceeded, her eye glanced wistfully round, and seemed, in the course of its survey, to take note of every face. Thus progressing to the door, she came opposite to the Earl of Essex, whom the crafty Cecil, not doubting that he would catch her eye, and divert her attention from Leicester, whom he hated, had pushed into the front.

“Aha!” cried Elizabeth, suddenly pausing, “here is this fair youth grown into a man, and we have hardly marked him. By my troth, a proper man, too—a marvellous proper man!”

“What an exceeding sweet face!” whispered one of the ladies of the bedchamber, loud enough to be heard by all.

“The eye of Mars!” observed another, in the same tone.

“Hush, for shame!” resumed Elizabeth. “Do ye not see,” she added, as her eye fell on a light gold chain, of the most chaste and delicate workmanship, which was turned into the Earl’s vest, “he hath lost his heart, and hath his lady’s image guarding it? By my troth, I will know who this fair one is!”

“Your pardon, my liege,” replied Essex, with some confusion.

“Nay, Sir Earl, I will know it,” returned Elizabeth, angrily. And, seeing that the Earl was not inclined to satisfy her, she rudely seized the chain herself, and drew it forth. The portrait of a female, set in diamonds, was appended to the end of the chain, and, as the Queen drew it forth, all pressed round to see who it represented. A deep blush mantled the face of the Queen, and her eyes, which had just before worn an angry expression, sparkled with pleasure: it was a portrait of herself.

“A true lover! a true lover!” she cried. “Now could I swear, by bell and candle, the fair youth would have died of his love ere he could have spoken it! Dost think us so cruel? Well, well, we must not leave thee hopeless. My Lord of Leicester, how awkwardly thou walkest of late! There, there, drop thine arm! Give me thine, my fair Lord Essex! give me thine!”

“My heart fails me, my gracious liege,” replied Essex, at the same time drawing the Queen’s arm through his:—“yet what marvel, since I have lost it?”

“Faith, now, an’ thou speakest so soothly, I will think thee false,” answered the Queen. “But, no! no! I’ll believe thee! Now for the barge! the barge!”

Leaning fondly on the arm of Essex, she led the way, down the adjacent staircase, and through the hall below, to the shore of the river, where the royal barge, with a number of private barges, belonging to the several members of the court, waited her approach. In these conveyances the whole party embarked, and in a short time, being favoured by the tide, arrived at Milbank, and there landed.

The Globe playhouse, where their excursion was to end, was now close at hand, and, by the Queen’s direction, they proceeded thither on foot. The house was already well filled; but two spacious boxes, opening on to the stage, one on either side, had been reserved for the court, and in one of these, to which she was conducted by the Earl of Southampton, the Queen bestowed herself. Her maids of honour stationed themselves on her left hand; and, at her command, the Earls of Southampton, Essex, Leicester, and Sussex, with Sir Walter Raleigh, and one or two others, took their places on her right. The rest of the court, including many ladies, and some few peeresses, were dispersed over the theatre.

The public acclamations excited by the Queen’s appearance had hardly subsided, when the curtain, which hitherto had kept the stage from view, was drawn up, and the performances commenced. The early passages of the play passed off tamely, till the entrance of Cymbeline, the father of the heroine, and king of Britain, and who gave the play its name, drew from all parts of the theatre one burst of applause.

The actor thus welcomed showed a fair augury for his powers in his majestic person. Though not very tall, his figure, whatever quarter it was viewed from, was faultless, and sufficiently high to be commanding. But it was in his countenance that Nature had exhibited her greatest skill. Here one could see, at a mere glance, that he had been cast in Heaven’s most select mould, and was marked out for a wonder. Thought sat on every feature, and his brow, which was lofty and expansive, and chiselled with a singular accuracy, was almost luminous with expression. Corresponding with this appearance, his eyes, when their gaze was once fixed, almost spoke; and, withal, revealed in their beams such a kind and gentle spirit, that they won the heart of every beholder.

Such was the master-genius whose works are to endure through all time, and open to posterity, through every successive age, the loftiest flights of speculation and philosophy. The “poor player,” who looked “every inch a king,” was the immortal, the incomparable Shakspear.

When the cheering called forth by his appearance had subsided, the play proceeded, and, in its progress, was watched by every spectator with the liveliest interest. Occasionally, as some passage of more striking excellence was delivered, even the Queen would relax her dignity to applaud, and the waving of the royal handkerchief would invariably be attended by the plaudits of the whole house.

During the interval between each act, the Earl of Southampton, with a discrimination which did as much honour to his intellect, as his attachment to the poet reflected credit on his heart, pointed out to the Queen more distinctly the various merits and beauties of the play, and, at the same time, commended the bearing of the several actors. The Queen and her courtiers (for the latter had no opinion of their own) generally concurred in his observations; but during the interval between the fourth and fifth acts, he expressed one sentiment which Elizabeth disputed.

“Hath your Highness marked,” he inquired, “how marvellously well Master Shakspear doth enact the king? I dare make a good wager, an’ he were so placed by circumstances, he would play to the same purpose with real sovereigns.”

“There we be at difference,” answered Elizabeth. “Though he have an excellent good judgment, I will venture to maintain, on my part, that ’twould scarce match such a task. What say’st thou, Sir Walter Raleigh?”

“I’faith, my liege,” replied Sir Walter, “an’ anything could make me doubt Master Shakspear’s judgment, ’twould be the judgment of your Highness. Howbeit, in this instance, I must even hold against thee, and take part with my Lord Southampton.”

“Fie on thee, traitor!” said the Queen, smiling. “But I will put the matter out of question. I will even test Master Shakspear’s self-possession.”

“How? how, your Highness?” asked several voices.

“Ye shall see!” answered the Queen, with the same quiet smile.

The courtiers, either from curiosity, or a desire to make the Queen believe that they took a great interest in the matter, would probably have pressed her further; but, at this moment, the curtain drew up, and the performance was resumed.

The play proceeded without seeming to dispose the Queen to pursue her design; and, as the last scene opened, Lord Southampton began to think, from the delay, that, in the interest excited by the performance, it had escaped her memory. Just as the play was about to close, however, the Queen leaned over on the front of the box, and it became evident that she was preparing to carry her intention into effect.

As she rested her arms on the barrier of the box, which divided it from the stage, her eye, seeming intent on the performance, fixed itself on that of Shakspear. The poet at once discerned that she had in view some object, and when, as if by accident, she dropped her costly handkerchief on the stage, he caught her purpose and motive directly. He did not allow them, however, to interrupt his speech, which was that that Cymbeline delivers at the close of the play; and for some moments, the part he would take in the matter was left open to conjecture. At length he set it at rest, in the opinion of the Queen, by giving utterance to that decisive sentence—

“Set we forward!”

Proud of her triumph, Elizabeth was about to turn to Lord Southampton, and claim his submission, when the poet, after only a moment’s pause, resumed—

“But,
Before we go, yet hold a little space,
Till we pick up our sister’s handkerchief.”

Thus speaking, he advanced, with a stately step, towards the royal box, and, bending on one knee, presented the Queen with her handkerchief. Amidst loud and earnest plaudits, which were again and again renewed, he then turned to his former place, and concluded his speech. Thus was the play closed, and another bay, of unfading verdure, strung on the poet’s brow.

The Queen, though never willing to allow that her judgment was at fault, was very well pleased with this adventure, and spoke of the poet’s gallantry in terms of admiration. Before leaving the theatre, she directed Lord Southampton to bring him to court, and, at the same time, remarked, with considerable emphasis, that he might there teach manners to some of her courtiers. Still dwelling on the subject, she quitted the theatre, and repaired, under the escort of the court, to the water-side. There she took barge, and, with the turn of the tide, passed down the river to Greenwich.

Among those who accompanied the Queen to Greenwich palace was our friend Sir Walter Raleigh. As captain of her household guard, he was the most nearly associated with her; and his fine person, and agreeable and polished manners, in which he was excelled by few, with his many admirable endowments, were thus ever under her eye. A princess of such eminent discernment, and so observant of merit, naturally regarded the possessor of these advantages with great favour; but being ever open to the approaches of the talebearer, and the attacks of the secret slanderer, it was variable and precarious. Moreover, there was hardly one person of the court, with the exception of the Earls of Sussex and Southampton, and, perhaps, the Earl of Essex, but saw in Raleigh a stumbling-block to himself, and was desirous and anxious to promote his downfall. He was, therefore, after all, in no enviable position; and the least dereliction of duty, or deviation from propriety, would be sure to involve him in disgrace and ruin.

These particulars being borne in mind, it will not excite surprise, on reflection, that he had allowed so much time to pass without making an effort to liberate Sir Edgar de Neville. Though he had originally thought it would be easy to effect this object, his conversation with Essex and Cecil, related heretofore, had led him to another conclusion; and he now began to think that it would be attended with difficulty. He was, however, not the less determined to pursue it; and, during his progress to Greenwich, he meditated how he could best interfere.

He landed at Greenwich without coming to any decision. Nevertheless, the subject still engaged his consideration, and, though the court passed straight to the palace, he remained at the water-side, meditating how he should act. While he was thus deliberating, an individual who was standing by, and whose vicinity he had not observed, advanced to his side, and brought his meditation to a close.

“Art thou Sir Walter Raleigh?” he inquired, respectfully raising his hat.

“No other,” answered Sir Walter.

“Then, have I a billet for thee, Sir,” said the other, presenting Sir Walter with a letter.

Sir Walter, whom the appearance of the stranger had somewhat interested, eagerly accepted the letter, and tore it open. It was written in a fair and legible hand, and ran as follows:—

“To the worshipful and most famous knight, Sir Walter Raleigh, Captain of her Highness’s Guard, these.—

“Right worthy Sir Walter.—Hereby thou wilt be advertised of my coming unto London, and of the sudden removal of my father, Sir Edgar de Neville, to the gaol of Newgate, by warrant of Secretary Walsingham. On thy promise of service, I make bold to solicit thy counsel, and, if need be, thine aid, towards effecting his release. The bearer hereof may be trusted.

“Worthy knight, thou hast my hearty prayers for thy welfare.

“Given under my hand and seal, this thirteenth day of August, in the year of our Lord God 1579, at the Three Compasses, near the Temple, London.

“Evaline de Neville.”

Sir Walter paused a moment after he had perused the letter. Then, thrusting it into his vest, he turned to the messenger, and proceeded to break his silence.

“This letter tells me thou art trustworthy,” he said. “What is thy name?”

“Bernard Gray, your worship,” answered the person addressed.

“I have heard the name afore somewhere,” observed Sir Walter, musing. “Ay, I remember; but it could not be thee.”

“It might be,” replied Bernard. “What doth your worship refer to?”

“The discoverer of the Popish plot in the North,” returned Sir Walter. “God’s mercy, ’twas a wondrous escape of the Queen and state!”

“It was so, blessed be God!” exclaimed Bernard. “Ah, I see thou doubtest me! Well, we will no more of this.”

“I’faith, I did not mind me thou wast a Papist,” said Sir Walter, “or I would have mentioned no such matter. But God be with thee! Tell thy mistress, in answer to her right welcome letter, that I will meet her in Greenwich Park, under the third tree from the Blackheath-gate, at seven of the clock this even. I would even wait upon her at her lodgings, but in my present case I dare not. Dost understand?”

“Right well, Sir,” answered Bernard.

“Be wary, then,” rejoined Sir Walter; “and keep thy lips close locked. With this caution, I give thee a good day.”

“Good day to your worship,” returned Bernard.

They parted with this valediction. Bernard, turning on one side, pursued his way to the road, and Sir Walter passed straight to the palace.

CHAPTER III.

Sir Robert Cecil had paved the way for the downfall of the Earl of Leicester, and, at the same time, achieved one step towards the advancement of Essex; but these measures, though great and momentous of their own selves, were but preliminary to what he meditated. His next object, according to the plan he had laid out, was to create a dissension between Essex and Raleigh; and, while he pretended to be a friend to each of those personages, to act really as an enemy to them both. This duplicity was not motiveless, although, on a cursory view, its purpose may not be apparent. He foresaw that Raleigh and Essex would henceforward divide the favour of the Queen between them; and if, by pursuing the policy specified, he could lead each to look upon the other as a rival, and yet regard him as a friend, he would himself be the real favourite, and they only his instruments.

The unsuspecting disposition of the impetuous Essex promised him an easy prey; but the sagacious Raleigh, whose knowledge of the world rendered him less unwary, would require more tangible evidence of friendship than mere professions. It became necessary, therefore, in order to secure his confidence, to entangle him in some more complicated snare, and then work out the issue as circumstances should dictate.

The man of policy had already laid his first toils, when Sir Walter Raleigh, unconscious of danger, and still thinking of the appointment that he had just made with Evaline de Neville, entered the outer hall of Greenwich palace. At the same moment that he entered on one side, an aged-looking man, of a grave and venerable appearance, made his ingress on the other. The old man was dressed in a long blue robe, embroidered, on the left breast, about half-way down, with the royal arms; a high ruff, or frill; and a black velvet cap, fitted close to his head. He walked very lame, and leaned on a stout staff, headed with gold, which seemed to bow beneath the weight of his age and infirmities.

Though somewhat discomposed, Sir Walter’s first impulse, on observing the old man’s approach, would have led him to spring to his side, and proffer him the support of his arm. Before he could realize his intention, however, he caught the old man’s eye, and it dealt him such a glance as forbade approach.

After his eye had thus rested on him for near a moment, the old man, seeming suddenly to recollect himself, dropped him a formal bow, and prepared to pass on. Sir Walter, however, though he saw that he bore him no good-will, was not disposed to suffer him to pass thus; and before he had yet taken a step forward, he accosted him.

“Give thee good day, my Lord Burleigh,” he said. “I grieve to see your Lordship walk so lame.”

“I would ye could all walk straight!” answered Burleigh, with a sour and significant look. “Thy new friends, the Papists, be ever walking lame.”