Chapter XV

The night was just falling, about three hours after the death of Inez, as the bark “Eliza” entered the Thames. Master Halyard, who commanded the watch, was about to go in quest of Hildebrand, in order to inform him of the ship’s position, when Hildebrand appeared on the deck.

Halyard fairly started as he glanced in his face. Its complexion was quite ghastly, and, though not inanimate, the expression that it wore, like that which the cunning sculptor gives to marble, was still and fixed, and wanted the spirit of motion. Moreover, his eyes, which were naturally light and penetrating, were heavy and swollen, and red with weeping.

“We must come to anchor at Leigh, Master Halyard!” he said. “Don Rafaele is dead.”

“Dead, Sir?” echoed Halyard.

Hildebrand’s eyes filled with tears.

“By my life, I could have better spared an older friend!” said Halyard, blowing his nose with great violence. “Dead!”--He was silent a moment, when he added, in a loud voice--“Ho, there! aft! hang the flag half-mast high!”

“We shall be at Leigh in an hour, Master Halyard,” resumed Hildebrand. “I will then go ashore, and settle concerning our friend’s funeral. That done, I must take to horse, and proceed, with what haste I can, to my Lord Admiral. Thou must tarry at Leigh till further orders.”

“Ay, ay, Sir!” said Halyard.

Hildebrand turned away, and, with a quick step, again descended to the cabin. Halyard, who was himself deeply affected at his friend’s demise, looked after him for a moment, with an eye brimming with tears; and then proceeded to pace the deck.

“Dead!” he muttered. “Well, life is but short; let us live well on the road, says the gentle Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.”

Meantime, the ship, favoured by a fresh breeze, progressed towards the haven in which she was to anchor. This was but a few miles from the river’s mouth, where a narrow islet, called Canvey Island, forms a breakwater to what, at high tide, may be called a small bay. A line of hills, or cliffs, covered with verdure, run round one side of the mainland; and, at the bottom of the bay, open on a vast extent of marsh, reaching almost to Tilbury. Just before the marsh presents itself, a little village, embracing some hundred houses, rises from the edge of the water, and slopes upward on the rearward heights; and, crowning one of these heights, beyond the verge of the village, a fine old church attracts the eye, and forms a conspicuous landmark at some distance.

The night had quite set in by the time that the cruizer reached the haven. On passing a little way inward, the water became very shallow, and Master Halyard began to doubt, for a brief space, whether she would be able to proceed. But a group of fishing-boats, some little distance in his advance, pointed out a route by which he could approach the shore safely, and, pursuing their track, he shortly effected that object.

It was right in front of the village, about a quarter of a mile from the shore, that he determined to come to an anchor. While he was superintending the unshipment of the anchor, he was joined by Hildebrand, dressed for a visit to the shore.

“Halyard,” said Hildebrand, “an’ I can find a funeral-man here, I shall send him aboard, and I have charged the pantler, who will wait upon him, how he is to be attended. Let me have a boat straightway.”

Accordingly, a boat, with two men at the oars, was quickly lowered, and skulled round to the ship’s side. Thereupon, Hildebrand took a brief leave of Halyard, and, without further ado, descended to the boat, and set out for the shore.

The boat landed on a patch of gravel, stretching out into the water, and falling back, in a long and gradual rise, on a row of cottages, opening into the village. As he stepped to the shore, Hildebrand ordered the boatmen, who were the same two that had accompanied him on a former occasion, to wait his return, and then set forward for the cottages. On approaching these, he was not sorry to observe, by the help of the moonlight, that long fishing-nets were hanging up on their exteriors, as that fact informed him that they were inhabited by a class of people who were associated with his profession, and with whom, consequently, he could converse freely. His expectations were so far realized, that he soon met with a fisherman, among the inmates of the nearest cottage, who engaged to bring him an undertaker--what he most needed; and immediately set off in quest of one. The undertaker quickly made his appearance; and Hildebrand, taking him aside, informed him what he required him for, and at once engaged him to perform it.

“The person deceased,” he concluded, “is a woman; but only my pantler, whom I have charged to attend thee, is advised hereof. Thou wilt be secret?”

“As death!” answered the man of funerals.

“Here is gold for thee,” returned Hildebrand, thrusting a piece of gold in his hand. “Get some dressers, and go aboard out of hand.”

The fisherman’s wife, at the instance of the undertaker, agreed to attend in the capacity specified, and, all being thus settled, Hildebrand induced both her and the undertaker to accompany him straight to the boat, and enter on their melancholy duties at once. Having seen them bestowed in the boat, and the boat pushed off for the ship, he turned away, and repaired to the village again.

Through the medium of the friendly fisherman, he soon procured a couple of horses (which were his next want), and a guide, to convey him to London. These acquired, he made no further delay, but set out for the metropolis on the instant.

Bitter and excruciating were the reflections that pressed upon him during his journey. The death of Inez, though it had not taken him by surprise, seemed both to have deprived his body of its vigour, and his spirit of its powers of endurance. The poet says,--

“High minds, of native pride and force,
Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!”--

but, after a time, it was not only the upbraidings of an accusing conscience, but the bitter reflection that he had utterly ruined his fortunes, that he had to contend with. When the shock arising from the death of Inez had somewhat subsided, he could see in his connexion with that lady, on mature consideration, many particulars calculated to soothe him, and to assuage that remorse which he had sustained originally. But as this feeling became less acute, the tender passion he entertained for Evaline, and which it had for a time overwhelmed, gradually revived, and tormented him with a flood of other reproaches. It never once occurred to him that he should conceal his connexion with Inez from Evaline. On the contrary, he felt a sort of melancholy pleasure, if the term may be used, in resolving to disclose it to her. But that it would utterly ruin his reputation with Evaline, and be fatal to their attachment, he felt assured. Life appeared like a dream to him as he thought so. His peace was gone; all his prospects of happiness were blasted; and, in his course onward, he would move through the world, and its busy and ever varying accidents, like a mere machine--without choice, enjoyment, or animation.

It was morning before he arrived in the metropolis. He stayed at the inn at which he first arrived, in Aldgate, merely to take some slight refreshment, and recruit his toilet; and then repaired to the office of the Lord Admiral. That personage, to whom he readily acquired access, received him cordially, and heard his report of his recent expedition with the greatest satisfaction. After complimenting him on his gallantry, he directed him to remain in London, at the lodging he had engaged, for a few days more, when he would send him orders for further service. Hildebrand briefly assented, and then, with many thanks for his favourable opinion, took leave of the Admiral, and returned to his inn.

Reflecting how he should proceed, he determined to communicate with Evaline, in reference to his acquaintance with Inez, through the medium of Bernard Gray. He accordingly wrote to the latter, informing him, at large, and without concealing one particular, of the adventure which had first connected him with the ill-fated Donna, and how she had become associated with him subsequently. But while he took the whole blame of her imprudence on himself, he failed not to set forth, fully and distinctly, that he was not aware that she followed him in disguise, and that it was only in her dying hour that he discovered she was not the person he had represented her to be. He desired Bernard personally to explain these particulars to Evaline, and, at the same time, to release her, in his name, from the engagement she had contracted with him, and urge her to seek one more deserving of her inestimable worth.

His depression was no way alleviated when the important letter was written and despatched. Having himself conveyed it to the postmaster, he proceeded in quest of Sir Walter Raleigh; but he found that that personage, as was recorded in a preceding chapter, had left home, and gone to join the fleet. He had, therefore, no means of dissipating his depression, but in looking forward to a time of action, and he waited his orders for service with the utmost impatience.

Three days elapsed before the orders of the Admiral were conveyed to him. They simply directed him, on their receipt, to sail immediately for Portsmouth, and there muster his ship with the fleet. Having read them over, he made no stay in London, but forthwith proceeded to carry them into force.

It was evening when he arrived at Leigh, but it had scarcely opened, and, therefore (for the season was summer), it was quite light. He found that, during his absence, everything had been arranged for the funeral of Inez, and he determined to have it performed without delay. His influence as captain of a man-of-war, and the fact that he was to sail that night, at the turn of the tide, to join the royal fleet, easily secured him the services of the parochial authorities; and in less than two hours after his arrival at Leigh, all things were prepared, both aboard and ashore, for the accomplishment of his wishes.

It was yet quite light, when, responding to the boatswain’s whistle, the topmen of the “Eliza,” attired in their white frocks, mounted the rigging, and, preparatory to the appearance of the corpse, proceeded to man the ship’s yards. Two boats lay alongside, manned with picked crews; and the deck-men, also clad in their white frocks, were drawn up on the deck, from the after-hatch to the gangway. Just as these arrangements were effected, the coffin, supported by four petty-officers, and covered with a black pall, was brought on the deck, and carried past the deck-men, to the gangway. Hildebrand and Halyard, muffled in long cloaks, and having their hats bound with mourning-bands, followed mournfully in its wake.

A salute of minute-guns was opened on the lower-deck as the coffin was lowered into the first boat. This announced its departure to the shore-people, and the solemn bell of the church, riding, like the spirit of Melancholy, on the evening breeze, was heard to invite its approach.

A large concourse had gathered on the shore, on the patch of gravel before noticed, to view its debarkation, and watch its progress to the grave. When the boats stranded, however, they fell back; and suffered the coffin, and the mournful procession that attended it, and which comprehended Hildebrand and the two boats’ crews, to pass through the midst of them. Then, as by common consent, they formed in irregular order in its rear, and followed it up the hill to the churchyard.

The minister, robed in his gown and surplice, met the coffin at the churchyard-gate, and preceded it to the grave. There, as he read the sublime service of the church, a feeling of pious resignation came over Hildebrand, and the terrors of earthly frailty were lost in his loftier aspirations. He turned from the grave, it is true, with a heavy heart, but not with despair; and, as he passed out of the churchyard, his nature assumed its wonted vigour, and he exclaimed to himself--“O! death! where is thy sting? O! grave! where is thy victory?”