It was in the same month of January, and on a morning equally fair with that which opened our preceding chapter, that Evaline de Neville, and her father, Sir Edgar, having just finished their morning meal, were seated together in a commodious chamber, on the upper floor of Neville Grange. A light frost was in progress; but a fire blazed in the andirons, under the large chimney, that communicated a comfortable degree of warmth to every part of the room. Surrounded by this influence, the two inmates of the chamber, though seated some distance from the fire, were perfectly at their ease, and seemed to be no way sensible of the cold without.

Sir Edgar was reading, and, from the smile that, every now and then, suffused his lips, the work he was perusing appeared to be a light one. Evaline, like an assiduous housewife, was engaged in working some embroidery, and her ardent mind was labouring as earnestly with varied threads of thought.

Her appearance had undergone a great alteration during the last few months. The outlines of her exquisite person, as she sat erect in her chair, looked more matured, and revealed the most bewitching traces of female loveliness. Viewed separately, the mould of each limb, in its turn round, presented some unexpected attraction, and, while it lay perfectly still and motionless, was yet more charming from its look of life and elasticity, than from its numberless graces. Not the least of these lay in the uninterrupted accuracy which was followed by the outline of her whole figure. In pursuing this, the eye expected, as an ascertained consequence, each successive and varied turn, and followed the contour spontaneously through every line. But no eye could glance at her fair shoulders and neck, falling imperceptibly into the upper region of her bosom, which was just visible above the frilled edging of her bodice, without making an admiring pause. Here the very beau ideal of proportion, marked with a hundred beautiful shades, was displayed in full, and, withal, was so bright and lively, that one could almost see the animation that it protected and veiled over. The delicate rounding of her chin wooed the gaze on further; and in her fresh and dazzling complexion, yet only relieved, not overcast, by various touches of thought, and teeming with health and buoyancy, opened to view a still more captivating object. Her large, deep eyes, beaming with tenderness, yet pregnant with reflection, seemed to shed over it actual and distinct rays, and to crown its bloom with an atmosphere of light. The soft, mellow tint, that, like “the red morning,” surmounted her cheeks, looked deeper than the skin, and, in its fulness of thought and feeling, led one to dive to the heart, to which, in pure truth, it was a mere tributary. Nor did the arch of her brows, or the long, glossy fringe of her eyelids, though of the deepest black, impair this effect; but rather served, by their varied colouring, to heighten and confirm it. Her luxuriant black hair was yet hardly dressed, and was pushed behind her small ears, on to her neck and shoulders, in numberless light curls, that one could not regard without the liveliest admiration.

Though she sat silent, her face, as has been remarked, was full of thought, and intimated that the mind was busy within. Yet there was nothing of melancholy in her aspect, or of gloom in her reflections. The theme of her meditation, indeed, to a girl of her age and temper, was rather enlivening:—it was love!

How often, since her return to the Grange, free from all care and embarrassment, had she sought to ascertain whether she really did love! How often had the fact of her pondering on such an inquiry assured her, on a moment’s consideration, that her love was beyond all dispute! Love!—she had no thought, no hope, no feeling, apart from the tender relations of her position, that was not inseparably associated and bound up with the one ardent and absorbing passion!

And to whom had she thus surrendered the deepest and most precious sympathies of her nature? How earnest must have been that suit, how persuasively eloquent that plea, that could win, in so short a time, such a priceless treasure!

No plea had been urged; no suit had been proffered; and all was placed on the die, on which depended the tenor and interests of a life, on mere hazard! She loved; she surrounded her love with all the sweet sensibilities of her nature; she clung to it as to life; and yet, in plain reality, it had sprung up unsolicited, and might wither unmourned.

She never thought of this—not once! Her passion had risen insensibly, and, when it incurred notice, it was too hopeful—it was too headlong, to be arrested. She rather discerned it with pleasure; and with all the confidence and tenderness of innocence, which judges the motives of others by its own, and has no notion of the frauds and deceits of the world, nursed and buoyed it up.

She never doubted that Hildebrand—for it was that person she loved—reciprocated her attachment. The tones of his voice, his looks, and even his sentiments, viewed together, and with a close and searching eye, evinced his love distinctly. It is true, she had not thought so at the time; but that, she imagined, in the innocence of her confiding nature, was because she was not on her guard, and consequently, had not given them particular heed. She did not know, or, if she knew, she did not bear in mind, that a partial eye might attach to this evidence too much importance; that she might recall Hildebrand’s voice in other tones than it had adopted; and give his looks, on which she dwelt so fondly, more force and meaning than they would warrant. If she did fall into such an error, she never once gave it a thought; but, with all the earnestness of her passionate and ardent nature, clung only to the bright hopes it raised, and the flattering prospects of which it was the fount.

Poor thing! she had no conception of the hypocrisy and knavery of the treacherous world. And, to say the truth, her ignorance of its usages, in purely moral matters, might well be excused. What possible motive could any one have, when no way offended with her, in stealing her affections, and then casting them to the winds? Surely, no one could find enjoyment—no one could feel any pleasure—in inflicting on an unoffending fellow-creature so foul a wrong! It was an outrage on the divine sensibilities of nature to suppose such a thing. For one of her own kind to seduce her every thought, to take possession of her every hope, to impress himself on the deep springs of her immortal soul, and then, in return, to cast on her an eternal blight, which should make solitude a torture, society a desert, and life a burden, was quite beyond the utmost verge and limit of apprehension. Hildebrand was, to all appearance, noble, frank, and humane: how could she suppose that he was capable of such enormous and motiveless turpitude?

The only fear that her love ever dwelt upon, when reviewing its various expectations, referred to Don Felix di Corva. It is true, that person was not at present in England; but her father, being now under no apprehension for his safety, had written for him, and he was expected at the Grange every day. It cannot be denied that she looked forward to his return with no feelings of pleasure. On consideration, however, she did not apprehend that her father would insist, beyond a certain limit, in carrying out his project of uniting her to him in marriage. Her fear, therefore, after all, was but a slight one, and no way arrested the ripening fulness of her love.

The anxious moments that the timid tenderness of her disposition founded on Hildebrand’s absence, though not few, were but short-lived, and sank and dispersed under the influence of her expectations. Her sanguine mind dwelt more on the hope of fruition, than the possibility of disaster; and though, in her solitary moments, she often pondered on the dangers which she imagined Hildebrand to be exposed to, and the hazardous character of his profession, it was always with a hopeful eye, and a confident belief that he was equal to any emergency that he might have to encounter.

She was pondering on his position at the period which opened this chapter, and, as she thought over the several causes of anxiety which she supposed it to embrace, a low sigh, that broke from her—perhaps, unconsciously—showed that he carried with him her fullest sympathy. The sigh reached the ears of Sir Edgar, and, dropping his book, he looked up, and gazed inquiringly on her face. Before he could make any remark, however, his attention was drawn to the chamber-door, at which his valet, old Adam Green, at this moment presented himself.

There was a smile on the old man’s lip, and a flush on his face, enforcing and supporting his smile, that announced him to be the bearer of more than ordinary tidings.

“What news, Adam?” cried Sir Edgar.

“Captain Clifford, and another cavalier, named Don Rafaele, are in the hall, your worship,” answered Adam.

Both Sir Edgar and Evaline sprang to their feet directly. Evaline, however, was so much agitated, though purely with her excessive joy, that she was obliged to sit down again, and endeavour to compose herself. Fortunately, neither Sir Edgar nor Adam noticed her discomposure. Having communicated his intelligence, Adam disappeared immediately, and Sir Edgar, without looking round, passed on after him, and hastened to meet his visiter in the hall.

Several minutes elapsed before Evaline could any way quell the deep and exquisite emotion into which she had been so unexpectedly betrayed. Even when her feelings were somewhat subdued, her fair bosom, for all her efforts to restrain it, still heaved slightly, and her face retained its glow of unmingled joy. Before she could quite recover herself, she heard the tread of feet approaching, and, as she hastened to gain her feet, the chamber-door was opened, and Sir Edgar and his two visiters passed in.

Evaline saw no one but Hildebrand. It would have been vain, if she had striven ever so, to seek to keep her feelings under perfect restraint when Hildebrand had once appeared. But, to record the plain fact, she did not seek such an object—indeed, she did not even give it a thought.

Hildebrand stepped hastily up to her directly he had opened the door, and, as his purpose became apparent, she advanced to meet him. In a moment, they had clasped hands, and greeted each other with undisguised cordiality.

Scarcely had the two young friends (for in that relation we must still view them) thus interchanged their greetings, when Sir Edgar stepped forward with Don Rafaele.

“I’faith, Eve,” he cried, in Spanish, “thou hast so overlooked me in the instance of Captain Clifford, that I am half minded to play the chamberlain no further. Howbeit, out of regard for thy maiden estate, I will even pursue mine office, and here commend to thee Captain Clifford’s friend, and henceforth ours—Don Rafaele.”

“I give you welcome to England, fair Senhor,” said Evaline, to Don Rafaele.

The young Spaniard, who now seemed to have discarded his light and graceful bearing, and to have assumed all the rigid stateliness of a Castilian grandee, returned a formal answer, and showed no desire to speak further. But, well aware of the reserved manners that prevailed in his native country, Evaline was not surprised at his demeanour, but supposed it to be no other than he maintained usually. His apparent coldness, therefore, no way embarrassed her, and, in the excitement of the moment, it was unnoticed by Hildebrand and Sir Edgar. The latter person, indeed, soon drew Don Rafaele a little on one side, and engaged him in conversation with himself. Hildebrand and Evaline were thus left to discourse apart.

They had much to tell each other; at least, Evaline, in the fulness of her confidence, had much to tell Hildebrand, and much to ask of him in return. And, in telling him all that she had suffered during his absence, she sought not to talk of herself, but to show, by her fervid and delicate expressions, her gratitude to him, and how his services were fixed and rooted in her memory.

The account which Hildebrand gave her of his recent voyage, though it omitted several important incidents, and forbore all reference to her cousin, Don Felix di Corva, inspired her with the deepest interest. As it described his perils, hardships, and sufferings, and ended, at last, with his capture of the costly galleon, it stirred within her the most conflicting feelings, though they all, in the main, flowed from one source—love and admiration of him.

Meantime, Sir Edgar and Don Rafaele, though they spoke in the Spanish language, seemed to converse together quite as earnestly, and on subjects equally interesting. Don Rafaele’s dignity had evidently relaxed under the attentive courtesy of the Englishman. Although, however, he conversed freely, he was still far from being at his ease; and he occasionally darted glances at Evaline, unobserved by Sir Edgar, that indicated anything but composure. But, whatever might be his real feelings, his demeanour had no effect on the company, and, to say the truth, was not even remarked. The morning, consequently, passed lightly over, and left the general harmony undisturbed.

In the afternoon, soon after the meal of dinner had been despatched, Hildebrand broke away from Evaline, and, sallying forth, proceeded in quest of Bernard Gray. On arriving at that person’s retreat, however, he found that he was abroad, and, from what he had said on setting out, was not expected to return for several weeks. As Hildebrand had already, on the invitation of Sir Edgar, arranged to remain at the Grange for a month, this news did not give him much concern, and, having determined to see Bernard before he should repair to town, he walked back to the Grange in undisturbed hilarity.

The little circle at the mansion hailed his return with unaffected pleasure. Their sprightly conversation, which his absence had somewhat interrupted, was resumed on his reappearance; their spirits acquired a new buoyancy; and, as the hours sped fleetly on, their fellowship seemed to become more and more confirmed.

Not the least singular feature in their intercourse was the intimacy which appeared to subsist between Sir Edgar and Don Rafaele. The extreme youth and extraordinary personal attractions of Don Rafaele, though somewhat overcast by his reserved manners, had preferred him to Sir Edgar’s regard at the very outset; but his interest in the young Spaniard deepened on acquaintance, and, after a very brief intercourse, increased to attachment. Associated with his country, in respect to his deceased wife, by a tie that he could never overlook, he was predisposed to this feeling, and the winning appearance of Don Rafaele insensibly led him to give it free rein. The warmth and kindness of his manner was not without a due effect on the young Spaniard. As his desire to please him became more apparent, he cast off his formal dignity, and became less reserved. Still, however, he was not at his ease, and his eyes betrayed a restlessness and discomposure, which his utmost efforts could hardly enable him to disguise.

No restraint of this sort existed in the bosoms of Hildebrand and Evaline. Their intercourse, if not founded on the same sympathies, was free and open, and full of ardent and generous feelings. In a correspondence so happy, the day sped lightly by, and left them anxious only for the promise of the morrow.

A fortnight passed over in the same uninterrupted harmony. Yet, at its expiration, Evaline, it must be owned, was not so uniformly composed, if she were even so happy, as at the commencement of that period. It is true, while she was actually in correspondence with Hildebrand, interchanging those social relations which constitute one of the brightest features of life, she was supremely happy, but her solitary moments were not unattended by a certain degree of solicitude. She noticed that, at times, Hildebrand’s brow was sad and overcast, and, if come upon unexpectedly, or without some previous intimation, that he was often taken by surprise; and, from these evidences of mental uneasiness, she inferred that he was too seriously occupied to think of love, even if he could ever be inspired with love for her. It was not improbable, indeed, in her opinion, that he loved another. Her fair bosom thrilled with anguish when she pondered on such a possibility. And how often, in the dead of the night, when every other eye was fastened in sleep, did she ponder on it! How often and often did she ask herself, with all the bitterness of disappointed passion, whether she had really built her affections, and the peace and tenor of her precious life, on the crazy foundations of a shadow!

But, as has been observed, these reflections never occurred to her when she was in communication with Hildebrand. Then, indeed, she had no apprehension—no anxiety: she had not even a thought beyond the felicity of the moment.

So deep—so inconceivably ardent, was her passion, that, when its object was really and personally present, her delight almost made her giddy. Every look that he assumed, every sentiment that he uttered, called up in her, on the instant, and, as it were, by an instinctive sympathy, a silent but visible response. The very springs and depths of her soul answered to his touch. She might be silent, yet—so closely was she knit to him—she was speaking in his voice, and even thinking in his breast. Every moment threw over her a new fascination; protracted intercourse, which so often robs society of its charm, only enhanced her delight; and, as time hurried on, her heart fixed its whole hope and aim on her all-absorbing attachment.

Yet she and Hildebrand were rarely together alone. Whether walking, or riding, or within doors, they were generally (and, to be precise in our remark, most frequently) attended by both Sir Edgar and Don Rafaele, and almost always by one or the other. One afternoon, however, it so happened, that those two persons sallied out by themselves, and left Hildebrand and Evaline alone.

They were sitting in the library, and, at the moment that Sir Edgar and Don Rafaele passed out, Hildebrand was engaged with a book, and Evaline, more lightly inclined, was inspecting the illuminations of a roll of manuscript. As she turned smilingly from one illumination to another, she seemed, for a moment, to enter into the full spirit of her pursuit, and to glance at the antique figures with interest and curiosity. All at once, however, she came to an abrupt pause, and looked up. A deep sigh had broken on her ear, and, forgetting everything else, she turned her eyes on Hildebrand, and glanced inquiringly in his face.

Hildebrand’s glance met hers: a slight flush mounted to his face; and a smile, though a mournful one, rose to his lips.

“What wouldst thou, fair mistress?” he asked, supposing, from the look of eager inquiry that sat on her face, that the manuscript she was inspecting presented some difficulty, which she sought his assistance to unravel. “What wouldst thou?” he repeated, and, as he spoke, he rose to his feet, and advanced to her side.

“I’faith,” answered Evaline, with affected displeasure, yet slightly smiling the while, “now I bethink me, I will not tell thee; for I hold thee to be scarce worthy.”

“As how?” cried Hildebrand, with some earnestness. “But,” he added, in a low voice, “’tis true! ’tis true!”

“Now, were I a man, and of degree and condition suitable, I would hold some question with thee on its truth,” answered Evaline. “But, as it is, I will even impeach thee on the items of thy demerit, and bring thee to a full confession.”

“Then, deal with me tenderly, fair mistress, I prithee,” cried Hildebrand.

“That will I not, but with horrible anger,” replied Evaline, with a smile. “Yet, not to enter into items, which I first purposed, I will only accuse thee of doing wrong to two trusty friends.”

“Then, will I not confess the charge,” answered Hildebrand.

“Are not my father and my poor self thy friends, then?” asked Evaline.

“There be few I tender so lovingly,” returned Hildebrand. “But what meanest thou?”

“We cannot help thee, thou thinkest?” said Evaline.

“In what matter, fair mistress?”

“In the matter that moved thee to that sorrowful sigh,” returned Evaline, in a low but earnest tone, and, at the same time, looking anxiously in his face.

Hildebrand changed colour. “No! no!” he said:—“that is past help. But did I sigh? Trust me, ’twas unknowingly.”

“In good sooth, it makes me sad that we can lend thee no help,” observed Evaline.

“I pitched my every thought on a shadow,” said Hildebrand, in a low voice. “Henceforth, the world, with its fair train of accidents, will be no more than a desert in my regard, and life but a dream. I am lost in it!”

“Alas!” sighed Evaline, deeply moved.

“Thou art too pitiful,” pursued Hildebrand. “Yet are those sweet tears, which my dejection hath brought to thine eyes, most soothing balsam to me, and more inspiring than new hope. By my troth, they make my heart swell again!”

“That do I not credit,” faltered Evaline.

“Wilt thou credit that thou art my heart’s hope and keeper?” asked Hildebrand, taking up her hand, and pressing it in his. “Nay, turn not away, sweet mistress! Remind thee, thou holdest in thy hands a human life—thy lips are to pass judgment on a soul! But wherefore do I discourse thus? It does thee wrong, sweet Evaline! I will”——

“Oh, hold! hold!” said Evaline, in broken accents.

“Dost thou—canst thou love me, then?” cried Hildebrand.

“Oh, yes! yes!” faltered Evaline, hiding her burning face on his shoulder.

Hildebrand, trembling with passion, turned his arm round her waist, and pressed her to his bosom. All his fears had now vanished, and, in the fervid kiss that he imprinted on her cheek, he had a foretaste of the felicity that he was yet to look forward to.

How brief are our moments of unmingled happiness! As Hildebrand, with the ardour and eagerness of a welcomed lover, pressed his lips to the glowing cheek of his mistress, he thought he heard some one open the chamber-door; and, turning quickly round, his eye met that of Don Rafaele.