The darkness is often greatest just before morning. At the moment that all hope seems to be lost, the course of events, rolling providently on, takes a new turn, and opens a brighter and more cheering prospect. The worst, with all its tissue of terrors, is frequently followed close by the better; and the wave which we expect to engulf and overwhelm us, leaves us high and dry on the shore.

The most trying crisis is not without some assurance of amelioration or relief. If all else fail, the nobleness of man’s own heart, bearing him up against the tide, is a resource and comforter. In that he is provided against all evils, and armed against every calamity. If he properly exercise his own innate resources, affliction can never subdue him, but will rather serve, by its searching and varied influences, to enlarge his intellect, and unveil the treasures of his heart.

Sir Edgar de Neville had now been a whole week a close prisoner in Newgate. The man who had inherited from his ancestors thousands of broad acres, teeming with produce, had no other habitation than a small room, some dozen feet square. The bare stone walls, black with age, were broken only by the door and window, the latter of which was far above his reach, and, as if that precaution were not sufficient, was defended by several iron bars. A pallet-bed, with a table, and two settles, or chairs, embraced the whole furniture of the room, and served but to render its nakedness more apparent.

He was a prisoner! As he paced the narrow limits of his cell, and found himself, after a few brief strides, brought abruptly to a halt, he felt as though he could tear down the stone walls with his hands, and thus sally forth. The window aforenamed, though small, admitted a free current of air; yet, whenever he thought of his situation, he felt as if he were stifling, and could not draw his breath. If he sat down, he became eager for action; if he sought relief in exercise, his humour changed; and while he had yet, in obedience to one prompture, taken but a turn or two round 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 of disposing himself for sleep.

If he turned from the more immediate details of his situation, his extended reflections, though more varied, were not less distracting. His fair child was alone in the world. There was no one to prompt her inexperience; no one to defend her from aggression; no one, in her own sphere of life, with whom she could “take sweet counsel,” and maintain the relations of a friend.

In his sympathy for his daughter, his own situation presented its most pressing hardship. He could have borne it alone: for conscience sake, he could have sustained persecution, have submitted to oppression, and have uttered no complaint. But to be torn from his darling—his dear, loving child—was more than nature could endure.

The promised support of Sir Walter Raleigh did not inspire him with much expectation. It is true, he hoped, but doubtfully; and the varying humour of his reflections, rolling back into the past, and calling to mind all the grievances which the followers of the Romish persuasion were subject to, represented succour from a pillar of the Protestant church to be extremely uncertain. Sir Walter, too, was involved in the intrigues of the court; was an aspirant to royal favour; a partizan of particular interests; and, more than all, an avowed and approved enemy to the very existence of Popery.

Hildebrand was gone. On him, indeed, if the past could be relied on, he might have placed dependence; but he was beyond recall. It might have been so ordered wilfully. Hildebrand, with all his seeming honesty, might be a malignant impostor, suborned to betray him to the Government; and, at this momentous juncture, possibly absented himself with a perfect foreknowledge of the evil his absence would occasion. But, no! the thought wronged him! it could not be!

He thought of his daughter seeking to effect his deliverance. He fancied her, under the prompture of affection, throwing off the reserve and timidity of her nature, and pushing to his aid through all the shuffling influences of the world. He saw her submit to the frown of scornful authority; he observed her suing the interference of the powerful courtier; and he traced her, at the last, to her own chamber, supplicating the protection of her patron saint, or the countenance and support of the blessed Virgin. As he pursued the imagined picture, he marked her pale countenance, her pensive eyes, and her still bosom; and though the surface was all placid, though her sweet disposition revealed no shade of impatience, he knew how deeply she was stirred, and that her heart was bursting.

The following day, he learned that, in conformity with his expectations, Evaline had sought access to him, but had been denied. He would have written to her; but the gaoler, in a surly tone, informed him that this would not be permitted. He remonstrated; but, wrapped in the arrogance of authority, the gaoler 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 cut off, in every individual relation, from his suffering child! What might not happen to her during their separation, and he, walled in that chamber, not even hear of it! How might she not pine, how might she not be oppressed, or how insulted; and no one be nigh to bid her be comforted!

His own troubles, for which he had furnished no provocation, had made him violent; but in contemplating the affliction of his daughter, exposed to all the contumely of the unfeeling world, he was subdued. In her loneliness, he saw no resource; and as he fancied her struggling with her fate, alone and unfriended, and without one certain auxiliary, his eyes filled with tears.

Day followed day without bringing him relief. Each successive morning, as its first light visited his cell, found him still in expectancy; and each night left him still despondent. The tedious hours were only one round of racking conjectures, which, as they seized his attention, occasional sparks of hope, dying as they rose, served but to confirm in despair.

Of all the ills of our brief but troublous pilgrimage, there is none like this—the terrible agony of suspense! As its fearful ramifications develop themselves, the horror of one thought, which has made our blood curdle, is lost under the sting of its successor, and each consecutive reflection inflicts a more excruciating pang. A host of melancholy images are embraced by one thought. Hopes and fears and anxieties, the very antagonists of each other, seem to be banded together, and to unite in an inroad on the prostrate heart. Each particular idea involves a crowd of apprehensions; and the troubled spirit, endued with an unnatural sensibility, which catches at the veriest shadow, is overwhelmed with bewilderment and distraction.

Sir Edgar had endured this appalling mental conflict for nearly a week. The seventh day found him quite prostrate, and almost reckless. All hope had gone; and he looked forward to night, not as to a season of rest, but as to another stage, which should bring him nearer his end. When night should arrive, he would lie down, nervous and wretched, with the same prospect as on the previous night—a morrow of apprehension, solicitude, and hopelessness.

While he was thus pondering on his situation, he heard his cell-door pushed open; and mechanically—for he really acted without motive—he looked up. As his eye fell on one of the two persons who appeared at the aperture, its sight grew dim, and he felt his head whirl again. But, though he was stirred so deeply, he did not give way to his emotion, and he recovered himself in an instant. Starting up, he caught the person referred to in his arms.

It was Evaline!—sweet, noble, excellent Evaline! After all her affliction—after all her terrible fears, which had wrung her heart to the quick, and pursued her like her shadow—she was in his embrace at last! Again she hung round his neck; again she leaned on his bosom; and, thus embraced, was fatherless no more.

Neither of them spoke. Their hearts were too full, and, in the overflow of joy, feeling only could reveal itself. And what tongue, however eloquent, could have told their emotion so forcibly as their silence? what could manifest their affection so distinctly and clearly as its own voiceless self?

Sir Edgar was the first to speak. After a time, seeing that the gaoler had left them to themselves, his reserve vanished, and he gave his feelings utterance.

“My own darling Eve!” he said, passionately: “I knew thou wouldst not desert me!”

Evaline looked up; and though her eyes, as they met his, brimmed with tears, a smile played upon her lips, that rendered him a sufficient answer.

“I know—I know,” said her father, in an agitated voice, yet smiling, “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: “all the saints bless thee!”

“And thee! and thee!” faltered Evaline, in broken, but earnest accents.

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 apathy vanished, and he resolved, if only to assure her, he would bear up still, and assume the fortitude that he did not feel.

“And thou hast come at last!” he said. “Well, now I have thee again, I care not what befalls.”

“Be of good heart!” answered Evaline, with more composure. “We have a friend now, who will carry us through.”

“Sir Walter hath not failed thee, then,” returned Sir Edgar. “I thought him noble; and right glad I am, in this eleventh hour, to be assured on’t.”

“Alas, he is undone!” replied Evaline. “He hath lost the Queen’s favour, 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 attach him; 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 have availed thee.”

“I needed him not,” said Evaline. “Captain Clifford, on parting with 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 Sir Edgar. “Who is this cavalier?”

“I know not,” replied Evaline, “nor what is his influence, but he 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 till to-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 well proved the saying of the wise man,—‘Put not your trust in princes!’ But sit thee down, Sir. I will even be thy keeper myself to-day, and abide here till night.”

Sir Edgar smiled, though mournfully; and suffered her, as she ceased speaking, to lead him to a contiguous seat. Drawing the other chair near, she seated herself, without more ado, by his side; and, with her hand clasped in his, resumed their conversation.

“Now am I happier here with thee,” she said, smiling, “than I could 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 makes this cold cell, with its walls of stone, brighter than a court.”

“And we may see fairer days yet,” rejoined Evaline. “Master Gilbert tells me they must put thee on thy trial shortly.”

“I would I could see Gilbert!” remarked Sir Edgar. “Think’st thou, thy new friend, Master Gray, can compass such a thing?”

“I will speak to him on’t,” answered Evaline. “An’ his means equal his good will, he will do it.”

Sir Edgar was about to reply, when, while the words were yet on his lips, he heard the fastenings of the cell-door drawn back, and he paused. As he did so, the door was thrown open; and two persons, 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, my daughter 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, stepped a pace or two nearer, and presented him with a folded paper. He seized it eagerly, and, with a trembling hand, drew it open:—it was an order from Sir Francis Walsingham, the Secretary of State, directing him to be set at liberty.