Chapter III

Providence always watches over its votaries. Asleep or awake, the heart that strives against evil, whether in its own erring nature, or the world around, may lean safely on its presence, and depend on its protection. And, if we view the matter truly, we shall find, on reflection, that we all continually recline on this influence, even when we seem to act under our own prompture. Pause on the unfathomable mystery of our nature! The muscular frame, glowing with health--the wonderful mechanism of the senses--the sight, that reflects on the hidden fabric of the mind, which knows not its own seat, the form and pressure of outward images--the hearing, that conveys to the same untraceable centre the slightest sound--the memory, that records and recalls the past--the active, profound, and undying thought--all may be paralysed in a moment. At what time, then, and in what enterprise, can we rely confidently on our own resources? If never, we are as secure from harm in our sleep, when its approach cannot be seen, as in the wariest period of healthful action.

Don Rafaele, as we have seen, had found Evaline asleep, and, with a trembling but seemingly resolute hand, had raised his dagger against her life. But though asleep, Evaline was more secure under the shadow of that Power to which she had commended herself, on retiring to rest, than if she had been able to see his design, and to wrest the dagger from his hand.

And could Don Rafaele strike her? Oh, no! However headlong might be the passion that boiled in his heart, it could not hurry him, at this last pass, over the bound between his thought and the act. It had carried him to the verge of crime; but there, on the very point of its consummation, the tenderness of his nature came to the rescue, and he drew back appalled.

Withdrawing his dagger, he reeled to the door, and passed on to the outer landing. As he gained that place, a faintness came over him; and he was obliged, when he had acquired a firm footing, to come to a pause, and lean back against the wall for support. But the weakness was only momentary, though it evidently required an effort--and one of no common or limited vigour--to overcome it. On recovering himself, he caught up the light, which, previous to entering the chamber, he had left on the landing, and darted up the stairs to his own dormitory.

The powerful excitement under which he had been labouring, and which had nigh hurried him into such monstrous guilt, seemed rather to abate when he arrived in his chamber; but the abatement arose more from physical exhaustion, than moral alleviation. His passion, however, though not a whit less bitter, was not quite so overpowering. After a little time, indeed, it appeared to be somewhat subdued; and, as reason regained its empire, he burst into tears.

He wept long and bitterly; but though his tears, in the end, made his head ache again, they materially relieved his overcharged heart, and did more to assuage his passion than his most soothing reflections. But whatever might be its nature, that passion was too deeply rooted, and, withal, too intimately associated with his heart’s most cherished aspirations, to be quite overcome; and, though it breathed a less fervid and desperate spirit, it was still resistless, and occasionally shot promptures through his ardent nerves that made him shudder.

Daylight found him still sitting by his toilet-table, brooding over his fortunes. He never thought of seeking repose; he was more wakeful, more animated, more truly and vitally active, except in the single respect of bodily motion, than he had ever been before.

As he observed the morning to grow later, he suddenly resolved to descend to the family sitting-room. Accordingly, he started up, and, turning round to the table, first despatched his ablutions, and achieved a brief toilet. He then turned slowly from the chamber, and descended to the lower floor.

On his arrival at the family sitting-room, the first object that met his view, on pushing open the door, was Evaline. She had clearly heard his step; and whether she had recognised it as his, or supposed it to be that of Hildebrand, a flush of pleasure had mounted to her face, and her eyes glistened with eagerness. But her agitation became less buoyant when her eye encountered his. Perhaps, she remembered, with the native delicacy of her character, that he had seen her accept the love and first caress of Hildebrand, or she might be moved by his wan and afflictive aspect; but, whatever might be the cause, her beaming cheeks were suffused with a deep blush, and the soft swell of her bosom increased to a heave. Don Rafaele, on first discerning her, was not unmoved himself. He even started as he entered the chamber; but when, on a second glance, he perceived the agitation of Evaline, he seemed to recover himself, and passed in with a firm step.

Evaline rose as he approached, and, though still deeply moved, extended him her hand.

“I need not to ask of thy health, Senhor,” she said; “for I see, by thy sad and heavy aspect, ’t is no way mended.”

“But slightly,” replied Don Rafaele, taking her hand, and attempting to smile. “Yet it was not me, I am right sure, that thou wast looking for but now.”

Evaline blushed even deeper than before.

“In sooth, now, ’t was not,” pursued Don Rafaele. “And wherefore should it be, when, if I be not deluded, thou art so bound to _him_?”

“I looked not for Captain Clifford just now,” faltered Evaline. “He hath gone into the park for a while.”

“Thou lovest him well!” returned Don Rafaele. “Yet hadst thou seen him, as I have, in the heat of action, daring peril, displaying his prowess, and overcoming his foes, thou wouldst love him even yet more.”

“Oh, no! I could not love him more!” cried Evaline, with overpowering eagerness.

Don Rafaele made no reply for a moment.

“I have heard of maids,” he then said, “whose love did so entirely sway them, that it hath led them into adventures surpassing belief. So exceeding hath been their devotion, that I have oft doubted, on pondering thereon, if it were indeed love, and thought it might be madness.”

While he thus spoke, his tone grew so sad and mournful, as if in sympathy for the infatuated beings he referred to, that Evaline was moved to the soul.

“These maids loved indeed,” she said, with a deep sigh.

“Some of them followed their lovers unknown,” pursued Don Rafaele; “and, for their sakes, did bear with great troubles, with fatigues, watchings, dangers, and divers singular hardships. An’ it be true that I have heard, there are no such maids now.”

Evaline sighed.

“But, to speak simple sooth, methinks I heard but fables,” continued Don Rafaele; “and such maids have never been.”

“Oh, say not that, Senhor!” answered Evaline, earnestly. “Be assured, though these maids certainly sustained marvellous trials, the love of woman, which urged them thereto, was well able to bear them up, and requite them for their misadventures.”

“To give up country, kindred, and fortune,” said Don Rafaele; “and, in strange lands, encounter notable perils:--i’faith, ’tis exceeding singular! Couldst thou do as much for _him_?”

Evaline made no reply.

“Thou couldst! thou couldst!” resumed Don Rafaele. “’Tis visible on thy face! But, an’ I be not misled, I hear his step coming; and I will leave you alone.”

“Nay, stay! stay, I beseech thee!” said Evaline, blushing, and, at the same time, laying her hand gently on his arm.

Don Rafaele acquiesced, and, with a half-suppressed sigh, turned to a contiguous chair, and sat down. The step which he had heard approaching was really Hildebrand’s; and that cavalier, though he had paused at the chamber-door, made his appearance the next moment, and entered the chamber.

His first greeting was addressed to Evaline; but when that was despatched, he saluted Don Rafaele also, and inquired anxiously after his health. Though the young Spaniard, in his reply, assured him that he ailed nothing, his looks lent no confirmation to his words, and Hildebrand could not but regard him with the liveliest solicitude. Before he could give expression to his concern, however, they were joined by Sir Edgar; and, after a few words more, the whole party sat down to breakfast.

Their meal was still in progress, when Adam Green, who was waiting in attendance without, entered the chamber with a letter, which he forthwith delivered to Hildebrand.

“A serving-man brought it hither, Sir,” he said, “and is now waiting below.”

“Prithee, bid him tarry a while,” answered Hildebrand, accepting the letter.

A glance at the superscription, which was written in a bold and legible hand, informed him that it was from Sir Walter Raleigh; and, impatient to know its purport, Hildebrand begged leave of his friends, and tore it open. It ran thus:--

“To my right trusty and singular good friend, Hildebrand
Clifford, Esquire, at the house of my worshipful friend and
neighbour, Sir Edgar de Neville, Knt., Lantwell, Devon, these:--

“Worthy Master Clifford.--Thou art hereby required, in the face
of love, and the fickle dame, Fortune, of whom thou art so
excellently favoured, to come hither to me with all despatch, and
take to thine old courses at sea. And herein thou wilt bear the
commission of our most gracious and dread sovereign, the high and
mighty princess, Elizabeth, by whom I have it in command, on
mine allegiance, to call thee hither straightway.

“I prithee commend me to fair Mistress de Neville, to my
worshipful friend Sir Edgar, and, with no less heartiness, to the
fair youth, Don Rafaele, whom it doth grievously afflict me to
pronounce a Spaniard.

“By the hand of my groom, Robert Wilmay, who hath it in charge to
ride posthaste.

“Given under my hand and seal, at my lodging of Durham House, in
the Strand, this 16th day of February, in the year of our Lord
God 1588.
“WALTER RALEIGH.”

Hildebrand smiled, though seemingly not with hilarity, as he ceased reading the letter, and appeared to deliberate a moment how he should disclose its contents to his friends. A brief consideration served to resolve him, and, when his resolution was once fixed, he entered on the delicate task without further delay.

Both Sir Edgar and Evaline, having fully reckoned on his company for the remainder of the month, received his communication with great disappointment; and, though it was not remarked by any eye but his, Evaline’s distress was particularly deep. Don Rafaele alone seemed to hear of their departure with pleasure, though he too, out of courtesy to their host, disguised his real feelings, and affected to look forward to it with regret.

Hildebrand’s concern in the matter arose chiefly from an apprehension that, besides injuring his connexion with Evaline, his early departure would prevent his communicating with Bernard Gray. He was resolved, however, though he did not expect that he would succeed, to make another attempt to seek out and confer with that person, and, if he could find him, even inform him of his engagement with Evaline. But, before he could carry his purpose into effect, it was necessary that he should first reply to the letter of Sir Walter. With the view of despatching this at once, he shortly desired leave of his friends; and retired to the library, on the floor above where they were sitting, to set it in progress. He had already determined to depart on the morrow; and therefore, on proceeding to give Sir Walter a reply, he had no question for consideration, but merely to state his purpose. In a short space, he accomplished that object; and, having folded and addressed his letter, hastened to give it to Sir Walter’s messenger. That person, in spite of the urgent entreaties of Adam Green, who had exhausted all his rhetoric in imploring him to dismount and refresh himself, had remained mounted at the door, and was ready to set out on the instant. Accordingly, directly Hildebrand appeared, he took charge of the letter, and posted off.

Hildebrand watched him till he had gone out of sight, when, with a quick step, he turned abruptly round, and passed towards the walk that led to the Lantwell foot-path. Maintaining his quick pace, he soon reached that locality, and thence directed his steps to the lodging of Bernard Gray.

The distance was considerable, but, urged by impatience, he never slackened his pace; and, in about half an hour, the “Angel” alehouse, at which his journey was to end, rose to the view. A slight knock on the door brought out the proprietress, and, to his great satisfaction, he learned from that individual that Bernard was at home.

Without further ado, he passed to Bernard’s chamber. As he opened the chamber-door, Bernard, who was sitting within, caught a glimpse of his figure, and sprang to meet him with unaffected eagerness.

“I was meditating how I should seek thee,” he said, after their first greetings had been despatched. “I have that to say will make thee glad.”

“They be famous good tidings, then, Bernard,” answered Hildebrand. “But before thou discoverest them, I must tell thee wherefore I kept not my promise with thee, in the matter we debated at our last meeting; and, therewithal, thank thee for thy kindness to Mistress de Neville, whom I so commended to thy good favour.”

“Spare the thanks, and deliver the matter,” returned Bernard.

“Were it but to have bid thee farewell, then, I would have seen thee before I departed,” replied Hildebrand; “but the truth is, I was kidnapped again.”

“Ah?” cried Bernard. “But I interrupt thee.”

“After I had left thee in the park,” pursued Hildebrand, “somewhat held me abroad a space longer, and ’twas dark ere I took me homewards. While I walked carelessly on, some one in my rear, who had been dogging me unseen, struck me a blow with a bludgeon, and I fell stunned to the earth.”

“’Twas Shedlock!” cried Bernard, starting up.

“Not himself, but two sturdy ruffians, whom he had hired,” said Hildebrand, in continuation. “They had bound me when I regained my senses; and were, I found, carrying me off. On clearing the park, they made for the highway; and there, after a little time, they came to an old farm-waggon; and in this they incontinently bestowed me. One of them, who seemed the bolder of the two, posted himself by me as a watch; and the other mounted the shaft, and straight drove off.”

“Whither drove he?” inquired Bernard.

“We kept on all night,” answered Hildebrand; “and, while it was yet dark in the morning, we came to Topsham. They drove direct to the gaol; and, on their instigation, the keeper thereof took me in charge. But I lay not long in a dungeon. After two or three days, my right worthy friend and patron, Sir Walter Raleigh, of whom I have heretofore rendered thee fair mention, came to take me for a runaway from his plantation, and straight set me free.”

“This Shedlock is a foul villain,” said Bernard; “yet the Lord is a jealous God, and thou must not avenge.”

“I am right glad thou think’st so,” returned Hildebrand.

“Wilt thou forgive him, then?” cried Bernard. “Nay, more! An’ I give thee that will insure thee thy name, and restore thy sweet mother’s honour, wilt thou suffer him, during the brief while he has to live, to continue the holder of thy heritage, and thou be only his heir?”

Hildebrand bit his lips, and was silent.

“Thou hesitatest!” observed Bernard. “Oh, how holy are the ways of the Lord, who is able, of his own heavenly will, to make the heart know its malice, and sweeten its thoughts with charity! Blessed be the Lord, who hath had mercy on his servant!”

As he thus spoke, the eyes of the penitent, no longer gleaming with enthusiasm, brimmed with tears, and turned gratefully towards heaven. Hildebrand was moved.

“I consent, good Bernard,” he said, “and will even try to forgive him. But how will my acquiescence herein prevail in the matter of my succession?”

“I will tell thee,” answered Bernard.

And, without further preface, he proceeded, in a low but distinct tone, to inform him of his recent interview with Dame Shedlock, and of all the particulars which the dame had then disclosed to him. Although, as his narrative progressed, Hildebrand was frequently visibly affected by his words, he interposed no remark, but heard him to an end without interruption. When he had brought his communication to a close, however, he broke into a passionate exclamation.

“I’faith, I owe thee a deep debt of thanks, good Bernard,” he added, “and not in this matter only, but in respect to thy service to Mistress de Neville. From all I have heard, I know it was thee, more than my right worthy friend Sir Walter, that finally set Sir Edgar at liberty. Prithee, how didst thou compass it?”

“I had done some service to my Lord Treasurer,” replied Bernard, “and I revealed to him the whole business. He threatened me at first; but for my service sake, and because he had hushed all inquiry, he let me go free.”

“Yet is he esteemed marvellous strict in matters of law,” observed Hildebrand.

“And so is he,” answered Bernard. “When he had extended me pardon, I told him the sad outlines of thy history; and, I promise thee, he straight set the _Concealers_, who have been very active of late, to inquire into Shedlock’s title to Clifford Place.”

“How accountedst thou to him for Shedlock’s possession?” inquired Hildebrand.

“With the true narration!” answered Bernard. “I told him that, in the days of Popish Mary, Shedlock was thy father’s steward; and that thy father and his house were of the church of God. Then set I forth how Shedlock, like a second Judas, joined himself with the persecutors; how he bargained with them for thy father’s life; and how his treachery was requited with thy father’s land. Further, I discovered to him, what he knew already, how our sweet sovereign’s revival of the faith had made Shedlock repent, and turned him into a Puritan.”

“Oh, Bernard, how can I ever requite thee?” cried Hildebrand, seizing his hand, and grasping it earnestly. “Should we get the land, ’twill be my first joy to see thee lord of it; and my children, an’ I ever have any, shall hold thee as their father.”

“Wilt thou wed, then?” inquired Bernard, at the same time looking steadfastly in his face.

“I fear to tell thee,” answered Hildebrand.

“No, no!” cried Bernard, shaking his head mournfully, “I will avenge no more! The Lord hath visited his servant; and my heart, which used to burn so, as if the memories of martyrdoms were themselves fires, hath won the refreshing savour of peace. Thou shalt have her!”

“Who?” cried Hildebrand. “Evaline de Neville?”

“Even so,” answered Bernard.

Hildebrand was silent for a brief space. His joy arrested his speech; for in Bernard’s assent to his marriage with Evaline, he conceived that the greatest obstacle to their union, even at an early period, was now removed. Yet, at that very moment, events were in progress, in the hidden course of Providence, which were to render all his hopes a perfect mockery.

When he was sufficiently composed to speak, he failed not to reveal to Bernard, without disguise or reservation, all that was passing in his heart. Bernard entered into his every sympathy; and thus, though they were only speculating on the future, the time passed in the liveliest intercourse, till Hildebrand rose to depart.

So much time had been occupied in replying to Sir Walter Raleigh’s letter, and walking to Lantwell, that it was past noon when he had arrived at Bernard’s lodging, and, the season being winter, it was now quite dark. He still hoped, however, to arrive at the Grange while the night was early; and having taken leave of Bernard, he set out with more than his average speed, and bent his steps straight homewards.

Though he had just heard so much to exhilarate him, he was not, on the whole, free from melancholy. As he began to calculate with more confidence on ultimately winning Evaline, his thoughts would, in spite of himself, turn to other images, and involuntarily remind him of Donna Inez. Had he nothing to reproach himself with in his acquaintance with that lady? On putting the question to his conscience, he sought, though almost without his own perception, to evade it, and to laugh at the compunctious qualms which it excited. What cavalier of the age would treat such a gallantry seriously but himself? Regarded in its very worst light, it was no more than a momentary peccadillo; and Inez, no doubt, had by this time quite forgotten it herself, and him also.

Such was the conclusion he came to as he stepped hastily into Lantwell churchyard. The night was yet early; but all around, as far as the ear could reach, was still as death, and, though it was cold, the frosty air scarcely stirred. The moon, which was in its first quarter, and had been up for some time, was behind a cloud at the moment, but the darkness was not dense; and, as he passed along, he could plainly distinguish the white tops of the several grave-posts, scattered here and there over the area. A few rapid strides brought him abreast of the church vestry, in front of which, in the angle between it and the transept, was the grave of his parents. Full of filial feelings, he was about to turn a glance on that quarter, when a low, broken sound, like a half-suppressed sob, broke on his ear. The sound came from his parental grave, and, though not without some trepidation, he hastily turned his eyes thitherwards.

The figure of a female was standing by the grave-post, with her back towards him, arrayed in deep black. As Hildebrand observed it, a feeling of awe, which the superstitions prevalent among mariners were well calculated to induce, rose in his bosom; and something whispered him, in a tone that thrilled through his soul, that the figure was the spirit of his mother.

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.

But though that conversation was animated, and never once flagged, it was easy, on observing them closely, to see that two, at least, of the party were far from being at their ease. Though they affected to be the gayest of the gay, both Evaline and Hildebrand, in reality, were stirred more by excitement, than a healthy animation; and, in their eager participation of the passing discourse, they were not seeking to amuse others, but to run away from themselves. Neither Sir Edgar nor Don Rafaele, however, as far as could be seen, noticed their uneasiness; and the evening passed off tranquilly.

The next morning found them all early at the breakfast-table. The horses, which were to convey Hildebrand and Don Rafaele to London, with a hired groom, whom Hildebrand had brought with him, were ready at the hall-door; and it remained only to despatch breakfast, and to part.

They ate their meal almost in silence. Even Don Rafaele, as the moment of departure drew nigh, quite lost his flow of spirits, and looked sad and dejected. Sir Edgar said hardly a word; and Evaline, who had passed the night in mourning, and in apprehending all manner of unhappiness, was almost heart-broken.

The moment of departure arrived, at last. Don Rafaele, with a mournful brow, shook hands with Sir Edgar and Evaline, and turned to the door. Hildebrand could linger no longer; and accordingly, with a forced smile, he caught up Sir Edgar’s hand, and bade him farewell. The smile was still on his lips when he turned to Evaline. She, too, was smiling, though her eyes were filled with tears.

“God ever have thee in ward!” said Hildebrand, in a low voice, at the same time gently pressing her small hand.

Dropping her hand, he turned to the door, and passed into the passage beyond. Sir Edgar, determined to see the last of him, sprang after him, and followed him to the hall.

Evaline was alone. Her tears, which she had restrained hitherto, but which had already mounted to her eyes, would be checked no longer, and, as her father left her to herself, they burst forth in a torrent.

Her heart’s hope was gone; and it was as if her heart itself, by which she lived and moved, had also gone. She felt all that anguish which, in the overflow of an ardent temperament, has been so pathetically described by Bishop Heber:--

“How bitter, bitter is the smart
Of them that bid ’farewell!’”

Nevertheless, as she heard Sir Edgar returning, she endeavoured, and not in vain, to assume an appearance of composure. But though she was able to conceal her emotion, she was still, in her heart, far from being composed. Sir Edgar, on his entry, even noticed that she was greatly dejected, but he had no suspicion that her grief was so rooted; but rather thought, from the character of his own feelings, that it was but the temporary depression which the parting from an esteemed friend would naturally occasion, and which a few short hours would wear away.

But time only served to confirm the sadness of Evaline. Her accustomed fortitude, which had borne her up under visitations more trying, failed her now, and left her to struggle with her thoughts unaided. It might be the effect of a restless night, or it might be solely the impression of her parting from Hildebrand, but, whencesoever it arose, a thrilling but undefined fear, like a presentiment of some coming ill, had fixed and rooted itself in her mind. As the night drew on, she became even more depressed; and Sir Edgar, who had latterly regarded her more closely, began to view her melancholy with seriousness. Before he could take any measures to soothe her, however, a hasty step without, approaching the door, induced him to pause. The next moment, the door opened, and both he and Evaline started up in surprise. The person who entered was Don Felix di Corva.