Hildebrand; or, The Days of Queen Elizabeth, An Historic Romance, Vol. 2 of 3

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.