by Anonymous
CHAPTER VII.
The darkness is often greatest just before morning. At the momentthat all hope seems to be lost, the course of events, rollingprovidently on, takes a new turn, and opens a brighter and morecheering prospect. The worst, with all its tissue of terrors, isfrequently followed close by the better; and the wave which weexpect to engulf and overwhelm us, leaves us high and dry on theshore.
The most trying crisis is not without some assurance ofamelioration or relief. If all else fail, the nobleness of man’sown heart, bearing him up against the tide, is a resource andcomforter. In that he is provided against all evils, and armedagainst every calamity. If he properly exercise his own innateresources, affliction can never subdue him, but will ratherserve, by its searching and varied influences, to enlarge hisintellect, and unveil the treasures of his heart.
Sir Edgar de Neville had now been a whole week a close prisonerin Newgate. The man who had inherited from his ancestorsthousands of broad acres, teeming with produce, had no otherhabitation than a small room, some dozen feet square. The barestone walls, black with age, were broken only by the door andwindow, the latter of which was far above his reach, and, as ifthat precaution were not sufficient, was defended by several ironbars. A pallet-bed, with a table, and two settles, or chairs,embraced the whole furniture of the room, and served but torender its nakedness more apparent.
He was a prisoner! As he paced the narrow limits of his cell, andfound himself, after a few brief strides, brought abruptly to ahalt, he felt as though he could tear down the stone walls withhis hands, and thus sally forth. The window aforenamed, thoughsmall, admitted a free current of air; yet, whenever he thoughtof his situation, he felt as if he were stifling, and could notdraw his breath. If he sat down, he became eager for action; ifhe sought relief in exercise, his humour changed; and while hehad yet, in obedience to one prompture, taken but a turn or tworound the chamber, his restlessness forced him to his seat again.
Thus did he pass the first day of his incarceration in Newgate.Night brought him no relief; and though, as the hour advanced,he stretched his limbs on his humble pallet, he never thought ofdisposing himself for sleep.
If he turned from the more immediate details of his situation,his extended reflections, though more varied, were not lessdistracting. His fair child was alone in the world. There wasno one to prompt her inexperience; no one to defend her fromaggression; no one, in her own sphere of life, with whom shecould “take sweet counsel,” and maintain the relations of afriend.
In his sympathy for his daughter, his own situation presentedits most pressing hardship. He could have borne it alone: forconscience sake, he could have sustained persecution, havesubmitted to oppression, and have uttered no complaint. But tobe torn from his darling--his dear, loving child--was more thannature could endure.
The promised support of Sir Walter Raleigh did not inspire himwith much expectation. It is true, he hoped, but doubtfully; andthe varying humour of his reflections, rolling back into thepast, and calling to mind all the grievances which the followersof the Romish persuasion were subject to, represented succourfrom a pillar of the Protestant church to be extremely uncertain.Sir Walter, too, was involved in the intrigues of the court; wasan aspirant to royal favour; a partizan of particular interests;and, more than all, an avowed and approved enemy to the veryexistence of Popery.
Hildebrand was gone. On him, indeed, if the past could be reliedon, he might have placed dependence; but he was beyond recall.It might have been so ordered wilfully. Hildebrand, with allhis seeming honesty, might be a malignant impostor, suborned tobetray him to the Government; and, at this momentous juncture,possibly absented himself with a perfect foreknowledge of theevil his absence would occasion. But, no! the thought wrongedhim! it could not be!
He thought of his daughter seeking to effect his deliverance.He fancied her, under the prompture of affection, throwing offthe reserve and timidity of her nature, and pushing to his aidthrough all the shuffling influences of the world. He saw hersubmit to the frown of scornful authority; he observed her suingthe interference of the powerful courtier; and he traced her,at the last, to her own chamber, supplicating the protection ofher patron saint, or the countenance and support of the blessedVirgin. As he pursued the imagined picture, he marked her palecountenance, her pensive eyes, and her still bosom; and thoughthe surface was all placid, though her sweet disposition revealedno shade of impatience, he knew how deeply she was stirred, andthat her heart was bursting.
The following day, he learned that, in conformity with hisexpectations, Evaline had sought access to him, but had beendenied. He would have written to her; but the gaoler, in asurly tone, informed him that this would not be permitted. Heremonstrated; but, wrapped in the arrogance of authority, thegaoler made him no reply, but passed in silence from the cell,and secured the door behind him.
Sir Edgar now contemplated his situation in its worst terrors.He was like one in his grave, shut out from the world, and cutoff, in every individual relation, from his suffering child! Whatmight not happen to her during their separation, and he, walledin that chamber, not even hear of it! How might she not pine, howmight she not be oppressed, or how insulted; and no one be nighto bid her be comforted!
His own troubles, for which he had furnished no provocation, hadmade him violent; but in contemplating the affliction of hisdaughter, exposed to all the contumely of the unfeeling world, hewas subdued. In _her_ loneliness, he saw no resource; and as hefancied her struggling with her fate, alone and unfriended, andwithout one certain auxiliary, his eyes filled with tears.
Day followed day without bringing him relief. Each successivemorning, as its first light visited his cell, found him still inexpectancy; and each night left him still despondent. The tedioushours were only one round of racking conjectures, which, as theyseized his attention, occasional sparks of hope, dying as theyrose, served but to confirm in despair.
Of all the ills of our brief but troublous pilgrimage, there isnone like this--the terrible agony of suspense! As its fearfulramifications develop themselves, the horror of one thought,which has made our blood curdle, is lost under the sting ofits successor, and each consecutive reflection inflicts a moreexcruciating pang. A host of melancholy images are embraced byone thought. Hopes and fears and anxieties, the very antagonistsof each other, seem to be banded together, and to unite in aninroad on the prostrate heart. Each particular idea involves acrowd of apprehensions; and the troubled spirit, endued with anunnatural sensibility, which catches at the veriest shadow, isoverwhelmed with bewilderment and distraction.
Sir Edgar had endured this appalling mental conflict for nearlya week. The seventh day found him quite prostrate, and almostreckless. All hope had gone; and he looked forward to night, notas to a season of rest, but as to another stage, which shouldbring him nearer his end. When night should arrive, he wouldlie down, nervous and wretched, with the same prospect as onthe previous night--a morrow of apprehension, solicitude, andhopelessness.
While he was thus pondering on his situation, he heard hiscell-door pushed open; and mechanically--for he really actedwithout motive--he looked up. As his eye fell on one of the twopersons who appeared at the aperture, its sight grew dim, and hefelt his head whirl again. But, though he was stirred so deeply,he did not give way to his emotion, and he recovered himself inan instant. Starting up, he caught the person referred to in hisarms.
It was Evaline!--sweet, noble, excellent Evaline! After all heraffliction--after all her terrible fears, which had wrung herheart to the quick, and pursued her like her shadow--she was inhis embrace at last! Again she hung round his neck; again sheleaned on his bosom; and, thus embraced, was fatherless no more.
Neither of them spoke. Their hearts were too full, and, in theoverflow of joy, feeling only could reveal itself. And whattongue, however eloquent, could have told their emotion soforcibly as their silence? what could manifest their affection sodistinctly and clearly as its own voiceless self?
Sir Edgar was the first
to speak. After a time, seeing that thegaoler had left them to themselves, his reserve vanished, and hegave his feelings utterance.
“My own darling Eve!” he said, passionately: “I knew thou wouldstnot desert me!”
Evaline looked up; and though her eyes, as they met his, brimmedwith tears, a smile played upon her lips, that rendered him asufficient answer.
“I know--I know,” said her father, in an agitated voice, yetsmiling, “thou wouldst give thy life first.”
Evaline could not speak, but she raised herself up in his arms,and kissed him.
“Bless thee, my sweet!” said Sir Edgar, in a tremulous tone: “allthe saints bless thee!”
“And thee! and thee!” faltered Evaline, in broken, but earnestaccents.
Sir Edgar was silent for a moment; but, meantime, his eyes,though dimmed with tears, ran proudly over his daughter’s face.As he marked its exceeding loveliness, his discontent and apathyvanished, and he resolved, if only to assure _her_, he would bearup still, and assume the fortitude that he did not feel.
“And thou hast come at last!” he said. “Well, now I have theeagain, I care not what befalls.”
“Be of good heart!” answered Evaline, with more composure. “Wehave a friend now, who will carry us through.”
“Sir Walter hath not failed thee, then,” returned Sir Edgar. “Ithought him noble; and right glad I am, in this eleventh hour, tobe assured on’t.”
“Alas, he is undone!” replied Evaline. “He hath lost the Queen’sfavour, and been banished the court.”
“Poor gentleman!” exclaimed Sir Edgar. “But where is Don Felix,dear?”
“Fled to Spain,” answered Evaline. “A warrant was out to attachhim; and, fearing the issue, he took flight directly.”
“’Twas not well done to forsake thee, Eve,” remarked Sir Edgar,mournfully. He paused a moment, and then resumed. “But, certes,being under fear of imprisonment, his staying would not haveavailed thee.”
“I needed him not,” said Evaline. “Captain Clifford, on partingwith me, gave me a billet to a friend of his, one Bernard Gray;and he it is that got me a pass here.”
“I’faith, Captain Clifford hath befriended us well,” rejoined SirEdgar. “Who is this cavalier?”
“I know not,” replied Evaline, “nor what is his influence, buthe hath stood by me right nobly. He got me the pass yesterday;but he urged me, for some reason of his own, not to use it tillto-day.”
“Well, Heaven bless him, any way, for letting me see thee,”answered Sir Edgar. “I grieve sorely for poor Sir Walter.”
“A right noble gentleman!” remarked Evaline. “He hath wellproved the saying of the wise man,--‘Put not your trust inprinces!’ But sit thee down, Sir. I will even be thy keepermyself to-day, and abide here till night.”
Sir Edgar smiled, though mournfully; and suffered her, as sheceased speaking, to lead him to a contiguous seat. Drawingthe other chair near, she seated herself, without more ado,by his side; and, with her hand clasped in his, resumed theirconversation.
“Now am I happier here with thee,” she said, smiling, “than Icould be in a court without thee.”
Sir Edgar pressed her hand. “Such love as thine, dear,” he said,“more oft visits the prison than the palace; and, faith, it makesthis cold cell, with its walls of stone, brighter than a court.”
“And we may see fairer days yet,” rejoined Evaline. “MasterGilbert tells me they must put thee on thy trial shortly.”
“I would I could see Gilbert!” remarked Sir Edgar. “Think’stthou, thy new friend, Master Gray, can compass such a thing?”
“I will speak to him on’t,” answered Evaline. “An’ his meansequal his good will, he will do it.”
Sir Edgar was about to reply, when, while the words were yet onhis lips, he heard the fastenings of the cell-door drawn back,and he paused. As he did so, the door was thrown open; and twopersons, one of whom he recognised as the Governor of the gaol,entered the cell.
“Thou hast given us but a short time, Sir,” said Sir Edgar,supposing he had come to part him from Evaline. “Howbeit, mydaughter will speedily be ready.”
“When she is ready, Sir,” answered the Governor, with a smile,“thou mayst bear her company.”
“How mean’st thou?” asked Sir Edgar, in amaze.
The Governor, without saying a word, but still smiling, steppeda pace or two nearer, and presented him with a folded paper. Heseized it eagerly, and, with a trembling hand, drew it open:--itwas an order from Sir Francis Walsingham, the Secretary of State,directing him to be set at liberty.