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:—

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.