palace, when he saw approaching, the proud Duke of Aveiro, in his coach,
which monopolised the greater part of the way, and slowly proceeded, at
a state pace, in accordance with his dignity. A carriage, driven
rapidly along, was endeavouring to pass the duke's conveyance; but his
coachman, by swerving first on one side and then on the other, prevented
it so doing.
"Make way there! make way for his Excellency Senhor Sebastiao Joze de
Carvalho," shouted the driver of the hindermost carriage; but the other
heeded not his words. "Make way there! make way; my master is late to
present himself at Court, where his duty calls him, in which he will be
impeded by no one," again cried the Minister's coachman.
"Heed not the base-born churl," exclaimed the Duke, from his carriage
window. "Does he dare to insult me by presuming to pass my coach?"
The duke's anger increased as the Minister's coachman persisted in the
attempt. "Keep in your proper station, wretch," he cried, forgetful of
his own dignity, "or by Heavens I will slay you on the spot."
At that moment the carriages had reached a wider space in the street,
where Antonio stood, so that the Minister's carriage was enabled to pass
the duke's: as it did so, Carvalho looked from the window. "I wish not
to insult you, my lord duke," he said; "but the driver of my carriage
has my orders to hasten towards the palace, nor will I be disobeyed;
regardless of the rank of those I may pass, my duty to my sovereign is
above all other considerations." The last words were scarce heard as he
drove by, while the the Duke shook his hand with fury.
The Cobbler laughed quietly to himself, as he beheld the scene. "What
fools men are!" he muttered. "Now, that noble duke is enraged because a
man who is in a hurry passes him while he is not; but he had better take
care, and not enrage the Minister in return, or he will be like the man
who put his head into the lion's mouth, and forgot to take it out
again."
"Ah! does this bold plebeian dare to insult me to my very face?"
exclaimed the Duke, as he watched the Minister's carriage; "but, ere
long, I will be revenged, and nought but his blood shall wipe out the
remembrance of his audacity. He dreams not of the punishment that
awaits him. Ah! he shall be the first victim when I attain to power."
"Did your Excellency mark the look of proud derision he cast as he
succeeded in passing your coach?" observed the sycophantish Captain
Policarpio, who sat opposite to his master, and was ever ready to
inflame his anger against those by whose downfall alone he had any hopes
of succeeding in his ambitious projects.
"I marked it well, and shall not forget it till he mounts the scaffold,"
returned the Duke, grinding his teeth with fury. "Boastful as he now
is, he will then be humble enough."
By the side of the Duke was his young nephew, to whom he had not
ventured to breathe any of his aspiring hopes, well knowing, that
neither by habits nor temper was he formed to aid in their
accomplishment. The youth now looked up with an expression somewhat of
surprise and pain on his countenance, and endeavoured to counteract the
influence of Captain Policarpio's observations. "Senhor Carvalho had
doubtless good reason for hurrying on to present himself before his
Majesty," he said. "Methinks, too, Senhor Policarpio must be mistaken
when he supposed that the Minister could have intentionally insulted my
uncle."
"There was no mistaking his proud glance, boy," returned the Duke. "You
know not the daring impudence of the man; his sole delight is to show
his contempt of that rank to which he can never by right belong."
"Yet the King, whom we are all bound to reverence, places confidence in
him; and he has already shown good example of his abilities," observed
the young Viscount.
"The King is easily deceived by those who choose to flatter him,"
answered the Duke; "but his flattery shall avail him but little. Ah! we
are at the palace, and that daring plebeian has arrived before us. We
shall see with what a sneering and bold glance he will front us in the
presence chamber, if he escapes his weak master's anger at his dilatory
appearance. Let him gaze as he will, every glance shall be repaid by a
drop of his life's blood."
While the Duke was thus venting his rage, the Minister, regardless of
the anger he excited, drove rapidly on past all the other carriages, and
descending at the gate of the palace, hastened to the audience chamber,
to kiss the hand of the sovereign, to whose welfare he was devoted.
As he approached, the King's ear was yet ringing with the tones of the
insidious voices of those who had been striving to blast his reputation;
but the eyes of his slanderers, as if conscious that he knew their vile
intent, sank abashed before his steady and confident gaze.
"Senhor Carvalho is late in paying his respects to us," began the King,
as the Minister bent his knee before him.
"I trust that your Majesty will pardon me, your most faithful servant,
when you learn that I was more deeply engaged in your Majesty's affairs,
and the welfare of the state, than those who would poison your gracious
ears with lying tales against my credit;" and drawing up his commanding
figure, which towered above the crowd of courtiers, his eagle glance
ranged over the frowning countenances of those who stood around. "But I
know that your Majesty is too wise and generous to believe them, while I
can prove my devotion to your service. I have detected, and for the
present counteracted, a conspiracy to deprive your Majesty of your
sovereign rights, and to bring your mind under subjection of your most
subtle foes, the Jesuits. While many, who would endeavour to injure me
in your estimation are passing their nights in sleep or dissipation, I
have been consuming the midnight oil in your service, snatching, at
intervals, a few hours of hurried rest. The details of my researches I
will lay before your Majesty at some future period, and, till then, I
trust in your goodness not to condemn me."
"We fully trust to your zeal, my friend, and know you to be a most
loving and faithful servant," answered the King, banishing, in a moment,
all the dark suspicions which had arisen in his mind. "Say no more on
the subject at present; but, when this ceremony is over, we will consult
in private on the affair. See, numbers are pressing forward to pay
their duty to us."
"But not one whose heart beats with fonder devotion for your Majesty,"
answered the Minister, again bending his knee, and kissing the hand of
the King, held out to him, when he retired to his allotted station. The
Queen and Dom Pedro looked angrily at him, but dared not utter their
feelings; the courtiers glanced at each other, when they were not
observed, and shrugged their shoulders, seeing that for the present it
was in vain to attempt to injure him with the King; but vowing not to
lose another opportunity of renewing their attacks against one whom they
had just reason to fear. Carvalho spoke a few words, in whispers, to
his colleagues, whose eyes sunk on the ground as he proceeded; and,
indeed, no one of that assembly of the proudest and most noble in the
land seemed as much at their ease as before he entered, except the King
himself, who, on the contrary, uttered his expressions of courtesy to
those who came to pay their respects, with greater ease and fluency.
One of the first was the Marquis of Marialva, one of the most
justly-esteemed nobles of the Court, who ever retained the affection of
the King, though he did not escape the jealousy of the Minister, who
was, however, never able to injure him. "Do what you will with the
others," the King used to say; "but let alone my marquis." He now
entered, with a free and graceful manner, for which he was remarkable,
and affectionately kissed the hand of his royal friend.
"Ah, my good marquis, we missed you much from our hunting party
yesterday," said the King. "We much required your active arm to slay
the beast, who gored one of our best dogs before he was slain."
"I had sprained my left arm, and could not guide my horse, or I should
not have missed the honour of accompanying your Majesty," returned
Marialva.
"We know; we heard of your accident, and are glad to find that you are
so far recovered; and, as we have a favour to ask, let us know when you
are perfectly strong. We wish to show the English Minister that we have
some nobles of our Court--and of no mean rank either--who are fully
equal to the feats of agility and strength of which his countrymen
boast. Our father--to whose soul God be merciful!--sent to the English
Court an ambassador, who was, we heard, the tallest among all the corps
diplomatique, and not the least able, we suspect; so that we may vie
with those islanders both in strength and size."
The Marquis smiled, as he answered, "I will gladly obey your Majesty in
anything you may command, and hope in a few days sufficiently to recover
my strength to do so."
A few persons of less note followed, when a disturbance, most unusual at
Court, occurred, and a voice, as if in angry discussion, was heard, when
the Duke of Aveiro was seen advancing in a hurried and disordered
manner. A fierce fire burnt in his eye, and a frown deeply furrowed his
brow, while his hand wandered unconsciously to the hilt of his sword;
but, as he came close to the King, the presence of majesty restored him
slightly to order; yet his carriage was far from having that respectful
manner which he was bound to preserve: his step was irregular, and he
yet snorted with rage, as, in a careless and indifferent way, he stooped
to kiss the hand of his sovereign.
"What has caused my lord duke to be so angry this morning?" said the
King. "He seems to forget that he is in the royal palace."
"I forget not where I am, for I have too much to remind me of it,"
answered the Duke, haughtily. "I have been insulted grossly--insulted
by one of the ministers in whom your Majesty pleases to confide, in a
way to which no noble can submit."
"Who is the culprit, my lord duke? It seems you have taken a lesson
from him," said the King.
"He stands behind your Majesty, even now, I doubt not, plotting mischief
in his fertile brain against your throne and the Church--Senhor Carvalho
is the man!" answered the Duke.
The Minister cast a withering glance at him.
"The punishment due to my crime is not to be found mentioned in the laws
of the realm," he said. "I therefore submit myself to your Majesty's
clemency. The offence was in passing my lord duke, in my eagerness to
show my respect to my sovereign."
"Is that the whole of the offence, Senhor Duke?" said the King, half
smiling. "It is at once pardoned, and we must request your Excellency
to move out of the way in future, when any of our officers wish to pass
you, in discharge of their duty;" and the King turned aside his head.
"The whole of the offence!" muttered the Duke of Aveiro, as he moved on
one side. "For half such an one many a man has, ere now, died."
The highest fidalgos, their ladies and daughters, now followed in rapid
succession; among them came the Marquis and Marchioness of Tavora, who
had lately been acting the part of viceroys in India, and were, perhaps,
but little pleased at being obliged to take a secondary place on the
present occasion. They presented their eldest son, shortly to be united
to the lovely daughter of the Marquis d'Alorna. Both the sovereigns
looked coldly on them as they passed, uttering merely the most
common-place observations.
"We have not seen you at Court for some time, my lord marquis," said the
King; "but we hope, in future, your own private affairs will not keep
you from us. We will not now detain you."
It was observed, that when the young marquis bent to kiss the King's
hand, Joseph turned aside his head, with a frown, nor dared to meet the
eye of the young man, who, after paying the same compliment to the
Queen, moved on one side. His betrothed bride, to whom he was to be
united in a few days, followed directly after, led forward by her
father, till she reached the presence chamber, when, with a slight
agitation in her manner, visible only to the eye of a keen observer, she
advanced towards the King, and, as she knelt to kiss his hand, he
whispered in her ear--"Fear not, dearest, this must be so; but our love
alters not." The unhappy girl blushed, and, as she rose, her eye caught
that of the King, bent on her in admiration, when hers fell to the
ground, nor did she dare to encounter the angry and fierce glances the
Queen cast on her. Her father was received with marked attention,
which, unsuspicious of harm, he took as due to his extraordinary merits.
Next came the Count of Atouquia, a young noble of unprepossessing
appearance, and his countess, a lady much admired by the King.
Trembling with alarm at a scene so strange and dazzling, the fair Donna
Clara was now led forward by the aged Marchioness de Corcunda, who had
repaired to Court expressly to introduce her. As the beautiful and
delicate young being knelt before him, the King smiled with surprise and
pleasure, and raising her, bade her take courage, inquiring her name of
the old marchioness. "She is, indeed, a bright jewel to adorn our
Court, where we hope constantly to see her; and we doubt not many of our
gallant fidalgos will enter the lists to win her smiles."
"Her hand is already sought by one of the first fidalgos, your Majesty;
but the young lady has a strong desire to become the bride of our holy
Church," answered the Marchioness.
The King looked annoyed, and an expression in no way respectful to the
Church was on his lips; but he checked his anger, contenting himself
merely with saying--
"The Church shows great discernment in choosing so fair a bride; but it
is putting too great a temptation in the way of sinners to commit
sacrilege, by making them seek to rob it of its prize."
Donna Clara heard these words of compliment, to which her ear was so
unaccustomed, that it increased her blushes, adding to the lustre of her
beauty, nor knew she which way to turn her eyes, till the marchioness
having paid her respects to the Queen, took her arm, and led her through
the admiring crowd. The Queen frowned on the lovely girl, and coldly
returned her salutation; for she feared, in each new beauty, another
rival in her lord's affections. Goncalo Christovao followed directly
after.
"We have much pleasure in seeing you at Lisbon, senhor," said the King;
"but we shall find fault with you, if you allow your daughter to quit
the world. We hope you will cause her to alter her intention."
"Your Majesty's pleasure is my law," said the fidalgo, bowing and moving
on, fearful of trusting his tongue with further words.
Scarcely a person of any rank or note passed, to whom the King did not
address some words; and nearly all had passed by, when a handsome
cavalier approached, and, gracefully kneeling, kissed his hand.
"We do not remember to have seen your countenance before, young sir,"
said the King, pleased with his appearance; "though we shall have much
pleasure in seeing it in future. We did not catch your name."
"Luis d'Almeida," answered the young fidalgo. "I have but a short time
ago returned from abroad, or I should earlier have paid my respects to
your Majesty."
"We are happy to see you, Don Luis," answered the King. "Your father we
have not seen for some time; we trust he is in health."
"It is the want of it alone which prevents his paying his respects to
your Majesty. Weighed down by years and heavy misfortunes, he scarcely
hopes again to visit Lisbon."
"He sends a worthy representative in his son," answered the King,
graciously; "and if you feel inclined to remain, we may give you some
office in our Court."
"Your Majesty's kindness overpowers me; but my father's state of health
claims all my attention, nor could I be long absent from him; therefore,
if your Majesty will permit me, I must decline your goodness with the
deepest respect," said Don Luis.
"In that please yourself, and give our regards to your father, when you
return," said the King, as Don Luis moved on to give place to those who
were following him.
At length the tedious ceremony, one of the many penalties royalty is
obliged to pay in return for the obeisance of the crowd, was over, and
the courtiers, except those in immediate attendance on the sovereigns,
were at liberty to go whither they willed. Don Luis, although amid a
glittering crowd of the young and gay, felt sad and dispirited; and he
had already reached one of the outer rooms on his way to quit the
palace, when a page overtook him, and informed him, that Senhor Carvalho
requested to see him; and begging him to follow, led the way through
various rooms, to a small closet, next to the King's private council
chamber. Here he found the Minister, pacing up and down, with a bundle
of papers in his hand, prepared to attend when the King should summon
him: he stopped in his walk, as he saw Don Luis, and held out his hand
kindly to him--
"Ah, my young friend," he said, "I am glad to find that you followed my
advice, and returned to Court as soon as you were able to leave your
father; and now I hope it is from no want of affection to our sovereign,
that you rejected his proffered kindness, as I spoke to him in your
favour some time ago, and he promised to befriend you; for I would
always distinguish those who have enlightened their understanding by
foreign travel, from the ignorant and profligate young fidalgos, who are
alike useless to themselves, and dangerous to a state."
"Your Excellency is flattering me at the expense of the Fidalguia of
Portugal," answered Luis, his sense of the respect due to his class hurt
by the Ministers expressions.
"I speak but the truth of them, young sir," answered the Minister, "and
am right in making you an exception; but in truth, I would, for another
reason, be of service to any of your family, and regretted much, when
the King made his gracious offer, that you did not accept it."
"I have again to thank your Excellency for the interest you take in my
welfare; but I should not even have returned to Lisbon so soon, were I
not obliged to attend the marriage of my cousin, Donna Theresa d'Alorna,
with the young Marquis of Tavora."
"I forgot your connexion with that family; but beware of the Tavoras.
They are haughty, ambitious, and proud; and though I fear them not
myself, I would not trust those I regard with their friendship."
A page now came to inform the Minister that the King was in readiness to
receive him.
"Farewell, Don Luis, and remember my offers and advice," he said, as he
turned to follow the page to the presence of the King.
As Luis was leaving the palace, he felt his arm seized in no gentle
grasp, and turning round, to his great satisfaction he found his friend
Captain Pinto by his side.
"Ah, what! Don Luis turned courtier!" exclaimed the latter. "Well, it
is one of the characters of life a gentleman ought to play, though I
cannot say it is much to my taste. I cannot stand all the buckram and
bowing a man has to go through, though I played my part pretty well
to-day, and received all sorts of compliments for sinking the Rover;
besides which, I expect to get something about as substantial, in the
shape of a cross of some order or other, which, the chances are, I see
the next day worn by the escudeiro of my Lord Marquis of Marialva or
Tavora. But no matter! it will be intended as an honour, and I may
boast how I won it, which few others can do: however, here have I been
running on about my own affairs, and quite forgetting to ask you about
yours. Tell me first, when did you come to Lisbon, for I have been
inquiring for you, and heard that you were not even expected."
"I arrived only yesterday, and remain but till my cousin Theresa's
marriage takes place."
"Ah! a sore subject that, I fear; but if you are the man I take you for,
you will soon recover from that trifling wound; but I will not talk
about it. I was wishing to see you, to deliver a message from Senhor
Mendez, who desires to have some conversation with you. He has not yet
recovered from his injuries, and begs you will visit him."
"I will gladly do so, if you tell me where I may find him," said Luis.
"I will take you with me to-night, for I do not venture to visit him by
day, for reasons I will explain some time to you," answered Captain
Pinto.
"I cannot go till late; for I have a visit to pay at the palace of the
Marchioness of Corcunda, to deliver some jewels I recovered from some
robbers in an extraordinary way to a young lady, who will be anxious to
hear of their safety," said Don Luis.
"What! another young lady in the case? I thought you had foresworn
womankind for ever," said Captain Pinto, laughing.
"I have seen Donna Clara but once, and am only performing an act of
common courtesy," said Don Luis.
"Is she very lovely?" asked his friend. "She is perfection," answered
Don Luis. "That fully accounts for it," said the Captain. "I thought
it would be so. Eternal wretchedness--no comfort but in the grave! Ha!
ha!"
Volume 2, Chapter IV.
When Don Luis reached the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, where
he had learned that Donna Clara and her father were residing, he saw
light streaming from all the windows, and sounds of revelry met his ear.
He paused for a moment, doubtful whether he should enter the scene of
festivity; but, being still habited in his full dress of the morning, he
felt that he was in a proper costume, having also a modest consciousness
that he should not be unwelcome to the lady of the mansion, nor, he
trusted, to Donna Clara. He therefore boldly approached the door,
working his way through a crowd of lackeys, chairmen, and linkboys, and
ascended a flight of steps leading to the habitable part of the mansion,
following a gay and laughing party of the young and happy. The
anterooms were already crowded with company, and in one of them a
servant pointed out the marchioness standing ready to receive her
guests. As he advanced towards her, people stared at him as one whom
their eyes were not accustomed to meet; but none of the fair or young
frowned, or seemed displeased at his appearance. Bowing gracefully, he
mentioned his name, and expressed his anxiety to pay his respects to
Goncalo Christovao and his daughter.
"Oh, I have heard of your exploit and gallantry, Senhor Don Luis,--and I
know that Goncalo Christovao will be equally anxious again to thank you
for the service you rendered his daughter. You will find him on the way
to the ball-room," said the old Marchioness, coldly.
"And Donna Clara?" said Luis, hesitating.
"Her father will inform you," answered the Marchioness, in the same tone
as before.
What these words could mean Luis could not tell, though they seemed to
forebode that he would not be as welcome as he hoped; but he could not
inquire further, as he had received a strong hint to proceed; bowing,
therefore, to the old lady, he looked eagerly among the crowd for
Goncalo Christovao, to have his doubts removed, but he could nowhere
perceive him.
While stopped in his progress by the crowd, a voice, which had once
sounded like the sweetest melody to his ear, arrested his attention, and
sent a strange thrill, more of pain than pleasure, through his frame;
when he beheld before him his cousin Theresa, leaning on the arm of a
youth, whose eyes were bent on her as if enchanted with her beauty. He
at once recognised the young Marquis of Tavora, whom he recollected in
his boyhood; and though, at first, a pang of angry jealousy shot across
his bosom, he at once banished the feeling as unworthy of himself,
knowing that though, during his absence, the marquis had proved his
successful rival, it was owing more to Donna Theresa's ambition and
vanity than to any unfair advantage he had taken. Notwithstanding all
the affectionate attentions of her betrothed husband, Donna Theresa's
manner seemed cold and indifferent, and she returned but short replies
to his observations; and when she smiled, to Don Luis her smile appeared
forced and unnatural. He gazed at the young pair with grief at his
heart.
"Alas!" he thought, "that I should have wasted my best feelings on one
so incapable of those tender affections which form the chief jewels of
the sex. Oh! woman, woman! lovely and angelic as thou appearest, if thy
heart has become cold and callous by contact with the world, how
valueless, how empty thou art! Unhappy youth!--she loves him not;--I
see it in that forced smile, that cold eye,--and yet he seems not to
have discovered it--I pity him!"
Such thoughts, very natural to a rejected lover, and very soothing to
his vanity, passing through his mind, he was unwilling to address her,
and would have passed unnoticed, when her eye caught his regarding her.
For a single moment a blush passed across her features, but the next,
holding out her hand, with a smile, she led the young marquis towards
him; and, to avoid being guilty of marked rudeness, he was obliged to
kiss the fair hand she offered.
"What! you seemed to have forgotten me, my good cousin," she said, in a
gay tone, "though I hear you intend honouring me by your presence at my
marriage. Ah, you do not remember Don Luis of Tavora. Permit me to
introduce my most loving cousin, who has travelled all over the world, I
believe; or, at least, to England, and other barbarous countries, where
the sun shines only once in the year, and then half the day is obscured
by a thick fog, while for six months the ground is covered with snow.
Oh, dreadful! I would get rid of such a country altogether: it makes me
shiver to think of it, even in this warm room. You have no idea, senhor
marquis, how my cousin blinked his eyes when he first came back to clear
skies and sunshine, so accustomed had he been to live in the dark."
While Donna Theresa was thus speaking, the gentlemen exchanged the usual
compliments.
"Ah, I am glad to see he has not forgotten how to bow properly, or, I
rather suspect, he has picked up the art since his return. I protest
that, the first day he came back, he had no notion of bending his body,
like the English, who, I hear, are either born with one joint only, and
that is in their necks, or else they become stiffened from their
forgetting to use them. Now, you are going to defend your friends, but
don't attempt it; I hate them, with their stiff pride and supercilious
airs, thinking every people their inferiors who do not possess such good
roads and fine horses as themselves. There was one man who came here,
an English lord, I forget his dreadful name, but it pained my mouth to
attempt to pronounce it, who compared everything he saw with his own
country; and, because our habits and manners differed from those to
which he was accustomed, he must needs consider ours far less civilised,
and took no trouble to conceal his opinion."
"Though at first rather distant in manner, I was received by many with
great cordiality and kindness, and saw much to admire in their manners
and institutions," answered Luis, wishing to protect the character of
his friends.
"I know nothing about their institutions," exclaimed Donna Theresa, in a
pettish tone, "but I know their impertinent superciliousness will make
them enemies wherever they go--so talk no more about them. By-the-bye,
I hear you have been vying in your exploits with that renowned hero Don
Quixote, and rescuing distressed damsels from the power of brigands by
the strength of your single arm, and with the aid of your faithful
squire Pedro. Everybody in Lisbon is prepared to look upon you as a
complete Knight Errant. I heard all about it from Donna Clara herself,
who speaks warmly in praise of your gallantry, I assure you; and if she
does not think you are perfection itself, she thinks you very near it.
I believe if anything could make her angry, it would have been my
abusing you to her, but, instead of that, it almost made her cry."
"Where is Donna Clara?" exclaimed Luis, interrupting her eagerly: "I
have a packet to deliver to her."
"You will find her in the ball-room, the admired of all beholders, and
of none more so than of the Conde San Vincente, of whose lynx-eyed
jealousy beware; and now, as I see that you are anxious to deliver your
message, I will not detain you. Farewell, Luis!" she spoke in a softer
tone.
"I wronged her," muttered Luis, as he hastened to the ball-room. "Her
heart is not turned to stone. Such dwells not in the female breast."
As his eye distinguished Donna Clara at the further end of the room, he
endeavoured to regulate his pace as etiquette required; but his
eagerness impelled him on till he had arrived close to her, when it
occurred to him that in his hurry he had not considered how he should
address her. She had, however, perceived him, when a richer hue mounted
to her cheeks, and her eyes beamed with a brighter light, as she timidly
held out her hand. Their eyes met, it was but for a moment; but they
there read more than Plato, Aristotle, or all the ancient philosophers
ever wrote--at all events what they prized far more. He took that
delicate hand, and pressed it with ardour to his lips, and it seemed to
inspire him with abundance to say, but yet she was the first to speak.
"Oh! Don Luis, I have been wishing to meet you, to thank you again for
your bravery and goodness in rescuing my father and me from the robbers,
and for protecting us on our way back. I have often thought of it
since--" When Clara had got thus far, she stopped, and wished she had
expressed herself differently; besides, she did not know to what it
might lead.
Don Luis then thought it high time to speak, to relieve her
embarrassment, expressing his happiness at again meeting her, with many
inquiries respecting her health, to which she made suitable answers,
when he continued--"I have been fortunate in recovering the casket of
jewels, the loss of which so much concerned you, and I came hither this
evening on purpose to deliver it, not expecting to find a ball going
forward."
"How kind, how thoughtful of you!" she exclaimed, repaying him with a
sweet smile. "Do not deliver them now, but come to-morrow morning
early, when I am sure my father will join with me in thanking you for
all your attention to us, if you will take care of them a little
longer."
"I would not willingly part with aught belonging to Donna Clara;" and
Luis bowed, as many other gentlemen were bowing to ladies near him. But
there was a look which accompanied that bow, unseen by any but the lady
to whom it was made, which caused her heart to beat quicker than usual.
Now Luis, when he entered the room, had most certainly not intended to
tell Clara that he loved her, nor had he yet done so, because he was not
aware of it himself, but he quickly found it out in the course of their
conversation, besides discovering that he was not indifferent to her; a
circumstance adding considerably to his boldness in speaking.
It may seem extraordinary to some of our readers that Don Luis should
have carried on so interesting a conversation with Clara, unheard by any
persons who surrounded them; but such was the fact, for lovers quickly
learn to lower their voices and restrain their actions, as we have
always heard: indeed, a friend of ours, a miserable younger son, once
made an arrangement with a young lady of fortune sufficient for them
both, to elope with him, while her unconscious mamma was sitting on the
other side of the room. The young lady was severely punished for her
fault, by the just indignation of her friends, who refused to have any
intercourse with her till, by the death of several relations of her
husband's, a coronet was placed on her brow, when their hearts relented
towards her, and they thought she had acted very wisely. The moral of
this anecdote is, that chaperones must not be too confident because they
keep the young ladies near them.
Luis claimed Donna Clara's hand, and led her forth to dance: they then
wandered together through several rooms, where they fancied that they
were unobserved. The temptation was very great, and he yielded to it.
His words were few and low; but Clara's ears were quick, and she heard
every one of them; for they were such as she would not have lost for
worlds. She longed to ask him to repeat them again, but as she could
not do that, she told him they made her very happy; for, at that moment,
poor girl, she forgot all but the present. She looked up, and beheld
the dark eye of the Count glaring at her from among the crowd. In an
instant her joy was turned to anguish; and like a thunderbolt, the
recollection of her father's stern decree, and of some dreadful words
the friar had once spoken to her, rushed upon her mind.
Luis saw the sudden change in her countenance; but, knowing not the
cause, supposed that an illness had seized her, when, forgetful of all
his former caution, he exclaimed, "Speak, my beloved, are you ill?"
His agitation was marked by the Count, though his words reached no other
ears but hers.
"Oh no, no! Leave me, in mercy," she answered, her voice trembling with
alarm: "I am not ill, but I have acted very wrong; I ought to have told
you at once of the lot to which I am destined; but oh! believe me, I
forgot it in the joy of seeing you. See, the fierce glance of the Count
San Vincente is cast on me. Oh! pardon me, that I must now tell you so,
I am condemned to wed that dark man, or to assume the veil."
A chill weight pressed on Luis's heart. "Was the bright fabric he had
just raised up but a vain illusion?" he asked himself.
Donna Clara was the first to recover herself; she continued, speaking
more calmly: "Go now, and confide in me. Yesterday I might have been
compelled to accept the Count; but now no earthly power shall make me
wed him. The confidence of your love will give me strength to resist
all the temptations, and to despise all the threats which are held out
to cause me to do that which I knew was wrong, and against which my
heart revolted. Come to-morrow, for my father has ever been kind, and
he may relent. Tell him openly of our love, and I will beseech him not
to sacrifice me to the Count: to you, surely, he can have no objection,
and, for very gratitude for what you have done for him, he cannot refuse
you."
The last few sentences were spoken while Luis was conducting her to her
seat. Unperceived by either, the Count had followed them at a distance,
where he stood watching them among the crowd. Clara looked up into her
young lover's face, and smiled. "Fear not, Luis, we may yet be happy,"
she said; but scarcely had she uttered the words, when, as if by some
fascination she could not resist, she again beheld from afar the
basilisk eyes of the Count glaring on her; but though their glance did
not wither her, it at once recalled all her fears and forebodings, and
brought clearly to her remembrance her father's words. Her gentle heart
sank within her: she could not allow Luis to leave her with hopes which
she felt too truly must inevitably be blighted. "Luis," she said, "I
cannot deceive myself, and I must not deceive you. My doom, I fear, is
sealed. My father, I remember, told me, though I scarce noted his
words, that his honour was pledged to the Count, that if I did not wed
him, I should become the bride of Heaven, for that such was my mother's
dying wish. That I will not wed him, I have assured you, and I know you
trust me; the rest is in the hands of Heaven, and in Heaven alone can I
confide. Oh! Luis, once again I pray you to leave me. Farewell! for
we ought not to meet again."
Luis saw by her looks that his remaining would agitate and pain her
more. "At your bidding, beloved one, I leave you now. I will see your
father to-morrow, and urge my claim; he cannot be so cruel as thus
barbarously to sacrifice you. Farewell!" Saying which, with grief in
his tone and look, he tore himself from her side, and hastily threading
his way through the crowd of guests, he rushed from the palace.
Clara remained unconscious of all that was passing around, till the
Count and her brother approached her. "Who was the gentleman with whom
you have been dancing?" said the latter. "He seemed an intimate
acquaintance."
The tones of her brother's voice aroused her.
"Don Luis d'Almeida; to whom your gratitude is due for rescuing your
father and sister from the power of brigands," answered Clara, with
greater firmness than she could have supposed herself to possess; but
her womanly pride was roused at the tone of the question, and at the
presence of the Count.
"He seemed to presume, then, too much on the service he was so fortunate
to perform, for the Count tells me he was engaged in long and earnest
conversation with you, which he does not approve, and would have
interrupted, had not the etiquette of society prevented him."
"The Count was employed in a truly noble occupation," answered Clara,
her gentle spirit excited beyond endurance at the unauthorised
interference of the Count and her brother: "nor do I know by what right
he claims the privilege of directing my conduct."
"By that of being your affianced husband, my fair sister; and as his
friend, I must guard his interests as well as yours," said her brother.
"He requests your hand for the next dance, and will then better urge his
own claims." Upon this the Count advanced, assuming the softest smile,
and in the blandest voice made his request.
Clara shrunk from him, as she answered, "I can dance no more; and I beg
the Conde San Vincente will not deceive himself by supposing that any
claims he can urge will afford me otherwise than pain."
"Is this, then, madam, the answer I may expect to-morrow--for which I
have waited patiently a whole month?" exclaimed the Count, fiercely.
"Such is the only one I can ever be induced to give," returned Clara,
with firmness. "Though, had not the Conde San Vincente drawn the answer
from me now, I should have preferred giving it through my father."
The Count's brow lowered, and again that ominous glance shot from his
eyes. "I give you till to-morrow to alter your determination, madam,"
he whispered, between his closed teeth; "for I was led to expect a very
different answer; when, if I find that a rival has influenced it, as you
have given me just cause to suspect, remember that his heart's blood
shall pay for his audacity. I will not lose so fair a prize without
wreaking my vengeance on him who has ventured to deprive me of it."
Clara turned pale at these words, which her brother could not hear; and
though they increased her horror and hatred of the speaker, she
smothered the feeling for the moment, for the sake of one who, from the
contrast, was every instant becoming dearer to her. "Oh, no," she
answered, "you have no rival but the Church, which claims me, if I
become not your bride; yet, as a man, a noble, and a Christian, do not
urge your claim. I can never love you; but surely that is not a crime:
and I will never wed where I cannot love, for that would indeed be
crime. Then spare me, for my fate is in your power."
The Count smiled darkly, as he spoke. "You know that I love you, lady,
and my love is not a weak, puny passion, to be thrown aside at pleasure;
nor will I yield it to any power but the Church, against which even I
cannot strive; so do not persuade yourself, that I am, like a boy, to be
gained over, by prayers or tears, to do what I should most assuredly
repent of. For the present, I yield to your wishes, and leave you; but
to-morrow I shall return, and claim the fulfilment of your father's
promise." The Count, on this, bowed profoundly, and joined her brother,
who was standing at some little distance, and to whom he expressed his
conviction that he possessed a rival in his sister's affections in the
person of Don Luis d'Almeida, when they together left the palace.
Poor Clara watched their departure with anxiety. What fears does love
conjure up in a woman's breast! She knew her brother's fiery temper,
and dreaded the Count's vindictive disposition. They might encounter
Don Luis; they would quarrel, and he would fall a victim to their anger.
She longed to be able to seek Don Luis, and to warn him of his danger;
or to have some trusty messenger whom she could send to assist him; but
she felt that she was helpless, and so completely did her agitation
overcome her, that she was obliged to fly to her own chamber, to give
way to her feelings in tears. The old marchioness was excessively angry
when she found that the Count had quitted the party, and she could
nowhere see Donna Clara. The fidalgo, who had been deeply engaged in a
game of cards, knew nothing of his daughter; and when, at last, it was
discovered that she had retired to her chamber, which no persuasions
could induce her to leave, the old lady grew more sour than ever, and
vowed she would never again be guilty of the folly and wickedness of
giving a party to please any human beings, as other old ladies have
often since done, when their _soirees_ have not gone off as well as they
expected. Balls in those days, in Portugal, were very solemn affairs,
the stately and sedate cotillon being the only dance allowed, people
endeavouring, by outward gravity and decorum, to make amends for
universal license and depravity of morals; hoops, bag-wigs, and swords,
not increasing any inclination for saltatory amusements. How far better
is the graceful and animating waltz, the inspiriting galop, and the
conversational quadrille, of the present day, with the really correct
behaviour so general in society.
Now, we dare say, some of our readers will accuse us of having again
fallen into the errors of romance writers, in describing Donna Clara's
hasty acknowledgment of her love for Don Luis; and, in our defence, we
affirm, in the first place, that such was the fact--which ought to be
sufficient. And that none may deem her unmaidenly, it must be
remembered that she had naturally thought of him every day since they
first met, that she had contrasted him with the Count, for whom she had
from the first felt a dislike, and that Don Luis proved he had thought
of her and her wishes, by recovering her mother's jewels; besides, he
was a very handsome, noble person, and her equal in birth; but, above
all, he told her he loved her, and she believed him. Why should she
not? More than a month had passed since they first met; and though they
had not since personally encountered each other, they had, every day and
hour, in spirit; for their love was of that pure essence which neither
time nor space can divide, which, born in heaven, outlives decay, and
against which neither the powers of the earth, nor the spirits of
darkness, can prevail; that heavenly spark which, in an instant kindled,
burns brightly for eternity! Love at first sight! We pity the
heart-withered worldlings who deem this impossible; who, because the
furnace of society has seared and hardened their feelings, laugh and
sneer at all the refined and tender sentiments which gentle nature
implanted in the bosom of man; though such they truly cannot experience,
yet the young and innocent may, and we know, are often thus blessed. We
say blessed, for a few moments of such pure ecstasy are of incomparably
far greater value than a whole life of apathetic indifference. Those
who require confirmation of the truth of our history, we must remind,
that Lisbon is considerably to the south of the latitude of Verona, for
we firmly believe that a certain William Shakespeare never drew a
character not true to life. Now, he tells how, in Verona, the young and
ardent Romeo and Juliet loved, and loved so truly, that they died for
love; and yet their love in one instant sprung to life, and flourished
bright and lovely to the end. Before concluding, we may quote some
words spoken by Juliet on their second meeting, and then we think Clara
will not be accused of precipitancy:--
Juliet.
"Three words, dear Romeo, and good night, indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world."
Volume 2, Chapter V.
How bright and fair are the hopes of youth, like the early flowers of
spring; but how soon, alas! do they, too, wither and decay, beneath the
first scorching blast of summer. Poor Donna Clara awoke, the morning
after the events we have described in the previous chapter, with a
weight at her young heart such as she had never before experienced. A
short month ago, the world promised naught but happiness, and now every
feeling of joy lay crushed and blighted. Old Gertrudes attended her
loved mistress with looks of sorrow, while the business of the toilette
was proceeding; and no sooner had she dismissed her Abigails, than she
urged her to confide to her bosom all the causes of her grief. She was
in no way restrained in her abuse of the Count, describing his character
very much in its true light; but her observations, far from relieving
Clara's mind, only increased her fears for the safety of Don Luis.
When the old lady heard that her fate was to be settled that very day,
her tears flowed fast, as she embraced her affectionately: "I will not
have my child torn from me to be shut up in a convent, where I cannot
attend on her," she exclaimed. "I don't believe my mistress, your lady
mother, who has gone to heaven, ever wished you to go into one at all.
I never heard her say so, and there's nobody but the Senhor Confessor
who ever did; so I see no reason why you should be forced to do what you
do not like. If you were to marry some young fidalgo whom you loved, it
would be very different, and all natural; because I might then accompany
and take care of you; but this I am determined shall not be, let that
stern friar say and do what he will. I don't care for him; for I know
more about him than he is aware of, clever as he thinks himself."
The old lady had got thus far in her tirade, when a knocking was heard
at the door, and the deep voice of Father Alfonzo demanded admittance,
which Clara could not refuse. He entered with a slow step, and a solemn
look; and after seating himself by the side of the fair girl, ordered
Senhor a Gertrudes to withdraw. She looked as if she would very much
like to disobey; but there was no help for it. "I have matter of
importance to communicate to my young penitent, which no ears but hers
must hear;" so the old nurse, casting a warning glance towards Donna
Clara, quitted the room.
"My daughter," began the Friar, "this day you are to make your
selection, either to wed the Count or to assume the veil. Now, I would
not bias your choice; but I consider it my duty to inform you of certain
things which have come to my knowledge, which will have great effect on
your future happiness,--but on one condition, that you reveal them to no
one; this swear to me, and I will speak them."
Clara took the oath as the Friar directed; for why should she refuse to
do that which her confessor asked?
"Know, then, my daughter, that the man whom your father and brother
desire you towed is a dark and blood-stained murderer!" and the friar
poured into the ear of the gentle girl a tale of horror, which made her
cheek grow pale, and her frame tremble with fear. "But remember," he
continued, "that you have sworn to reveal this tale to no one, not even
to your parent, or dearest friend."
"I will not forget my oath; for my lips could not even utter the
dreadful tale," cried the agitated girl.
"'Tis well, then: you renounce all intention of wedding this Count?"
said the Friar.
"Oh yes, yes, I would die sooner!" returned Clara.
"You have a far happier alternative in store for you, my daughter," said
the Friar: "a life of sanctity and devotion; in which you will be free
from the cares and troubles of the world; and in the daily communion of
pious and humble women, whose every action is guided by religious and
learned priests, you will soon forget all the frivolities and vanities
of the society you quit."
"I will submit to the will of Heaven," answered the gentle Clara, in a
faint voice.
"Such a temper is highly commendable, my daughter," returned the Friar.
"You must prepare to enter, in a few days, the holy retreat selected for
you, while, in the mean time, I will make arrangements with the Lady
Abbess for your reception. I now go to seek your father, to communicate
your pious determination."
"Oh no, let me speak to my father," cried Clara, eagerly. "I would
rather that he should hear from my lips that I cannot wed the Count: he
may--" and she hesitated, recollecting herself.
"As you will," said the Friar, looking at her suspiciously; "but
remember your oath, and dread the punishment of Heaven."
A dreadful doubt crossed her mind: had the Friar any sinister motive for
deceiving her?
The Friar rose without again addressing her, and quitted her chamber.
He sought the fidalgo, and, notwithstanding Clara's request, he informed
him of her determination. "Your daughter seems bent on disobeying your
wishes, senhor," he said. "Though I have exerted my humble endeavours
to persuade her to follow them, and have placed the character of the
young Count in as favourable a point of view as possible, she has a
foolish and invincible repugnance to him; however, perhaps a father's
persuasions may have more effect than mine; but should you not succeed,
be firm, and remember your oath, or dread the vengeance of Heaven!" and
the Friar turned aside his head, to hide the dark smile which lighted up
his features.
The fidalgo parted from his confessor, and hastened to his daughter's
chamber. Clara had sunk on her knees before the little altar and
crucifix on one side of her room, to seek aid from Heaven to support
that misery which it seemed cruel man had conspired to cause. She rose
as she heard her father's footsteps approaching: she had not wept, her
grief was too bitter, too hopeless, for tears to give relief; and with
apparent calmness she met him as he entered. But already had the blight
fallen on that fair brow; the soft lustre of her eyes had been
extinguished; the rose had fled her cheeks, and no more did the
accustomed smile dwell on those sweet lips. The fidalgo could not fail
to see the change; but he made no remark: his thoughts were busy with
the arrangement on which he had determined. He loved his daughter much,
but his pride was dearer to him than aught else, and for that must every
consideration be sacrificed: all peace on earth, all hopes of heaven,
must bow before that cursed, blood-stained idol of his soul!
"Clara," he said, as he led her to a seat, "this day the Count will come
to receive the answer to his suit. He loves you, my child, for he has
often assured me of it. He appears, in every way, such a husband as I
should desire for you; and I feel perfectly satisfied with the selection
I have made: you will, therefore, I trust, offer no further opposition
to my wishes, though Father Alfonzo tells me you have yet some maidenly
scruples about accepting one whom you fancy you cannot love."
"I must not for a moment longer allow you to remain in uncertainty, my
father," cried Donna Clara. "I cannot wed the Count. I dreaded him at
first, though, by your desire, I sought to conquer my repugnance; but
now--oh! spare me, my father, spare me! retract your stern decree--I
never can be his!"
"Is such your firm resolve, Clara?" asked her father. "Remember the
alternative."
"It is, my father; for you know him not!" she exclaimed, as she cast
herself kneeling at his feet, while she clasped his hand and gazed into
his countenance. "But you will not be so cruel, so unlike yourself, as
to compel me to embrace a life for which I have no calling. Father, oh
hear me! I love another, fondly, devotedly,--one whom you cannot
disapprove,--one who merits your esteem and gratitude. I knew it not
before, or I would have told you; I knew not that he loved me; but now
that I feel assured of his love, I would not wed another to gain the
crown of Portugal! Frown not thus on your child, my father; I have not
loved unworthily; he is noble, brave, and good,--he will himself come to
urge his suit."
"Who is the person who has dared to win my daughter's affections without
my permission?" exclaimed the Fidalgo, interrupting her. "Speak,
child!"
"Don Luis d'Almeida," answered Clara, firmly.
"Clara, you have deceived me," said her father. "Has this conduct been
worthy of a high-born maiden, to receive the addresses of one, whoever
he may be, without your father's permission? But the crime will bring
its own punishment. Yet how can it be so? You could have seen him but
once, and how know you that he loves you?"
"I saw him again, here, on the evening when he came to tell me that he
had recovered the casket with my mother's jewels; and he promised to
return this morning to deliver them," said Clara.
"I will receive him, and thank him for his courtesy," returned the
Fidalgo, coldly. "I have nothing for which to blame him; and, under
other circumstances, I might have consented to his suit, though his
poverty is an objection. But it is now too late; my honour is pledged
to the Count, and I must fulfil my contract, provided he is worthy of
you; nor has he given me any cause to suppose to the contrary."
A gleam of hope shot across the bosom of his daughter, as she exclaimed,
"Oh! my father, he is"--but, like the dark thunder cloud, the
remembrance of her oath again rushed on her mind, and obscured the
feeling.
At that moment one of her attendants entered, to announce that the Count
was waiting below.
"Once more, Clara, I ask you, will you receive the Count?" demanded the
Fidalgo, sternly.
"Father, I cannot!" gasped forth his unhappy child. "At least, spare me
the horror of meeting him. In everything else I will obey you, but in
this I cannot. I will sacrifice all my hopes in life to save your
honour; I will give up the world, and the happiness I thought to find in
it. I will quit life itself, and oh, gladly! but I cannot wed the
Count."
"Clara, you have chosen your lot," exclaimed the Fidalgo, raising her,
and placing her on a seat, when he moved towards the door. "I will
dismiss the Count at your desire, but I have one only course to pursue,
which you have already consented to follow. Prepare to quit me for
ever!"
With these words the proud fidalgo left his gentle daughter.
The Conde San Vincente was furious when he heard from Goncalo Christovao
that his suit was finally rejected, and he demanded that the fidalgo
should fulfil his promise in consigning his daughter to a convent,
rather than that any other should gain the prize which was not to be
his. He concealed, however, the fierce rage which burnt within his
bosom at the disappointment of his wishes, and with a show of haughty
courtesy took his leave of the fidalgo.
Clara anxiously waited all day, in the hopes of hearing that Don Luis
had called, and of receiving the casket he had promised to bring. She
knew it was wrong to wish it; but she trusted that Gertrudes would
contrive to enable her to meet him; but the day passed away, and she
heard not of him, nor could her nurse gain her any information.
We cannot dwell on her grief and wretchedness. Poor girl! she was but
one of the many victims to pride, bigotry, and designing hypocrisy.
Several days passed away, the friar visiting her constantly, and
dwelling strongly on her mother's dying vow, when she had devoted her to
the Church; so that, heart-broken and despairing, she agreed to obey her
father's commands.
Yet, young and innocent as she was, and free from all sort of guile
herself, there was something in the manner and the conversation of the
friar which raised horrid doubts in her mind as to the purity of his
motives. He did not shock her ear by a word which could be repeated to
his discredit; he did not propose aught unbecoming her maiden modesty to
listen to, but he insinuated that a conventual life was not of that
ascetic nature she had supposed; that pleasures, of which custom forbade
the enjoyment in society, might be tasted within the precincts of those
seemingly gloomy walls; and that the fair brides of Heaven were not
entirely secluded from all intercourse with lovers of a more earthly
mould.
Though she could not understand his discourse, for a virtuous and
youthful mind cannot comprehend the extent of villainy of which man is
capable, yet how gladly would she have escaped from the life to which
she was doomed! But she had promised her father to enter it, and he
insisted on her fulfilling that promise; for he believed the Count
upright and honourable; yet a word from her would convince him of the
contrary--would show him that he had been vilely imposed on; and, by his
own acknowledgment, he would yield to her wishes, and she might be happy
with the man she loved: but that word her oath forbade her to pronounce.
She knew the Count to be a murderer and a dark ruffian, but she could
not breathe this knowledge into mortal ear, though her own happiness or
life depended on it: hers was indeed a cruel fate.
Her father kept much aloof from her; for he could not bear to meet the
eye of his child. He, too, looked pale and wretched; for there was a
worm at his heart gnawing at his more tender affections, which his pride
endeavoured in vain to crush. Her brother never came near her; he chose
to be offended at her rejection of his friend, and when the old
marchioness saw her, she scolded her half the time for refusing the
Count, and the rest she spent in praising the holiness and pure joys of
a conventual existence. Poor Gertrudes was most completely at fault:
she had trusted too much to her sagacity and acuteness, and had been
foiled at every point; so she spent the day and the greater part of the
night in weeping by the side of her young mistress.
At length the day arrived on which Clara was to quit her father's care,
and to take up her abode within the walls of the convent.
The convent selected for her was that of Santa Clara, her patron saint,
the abbess of which was a relative of Father Alfonzo, a woman of noble
family, and many connexions among the high dignitaries of the Church, by
whose exertions she had been raised to her present dignity, more than by
any peculiar claims to sanctity which she could boast of. In early
youth she had been very beautiful; indeed she yet retained many of her
former attractions, still having a right to claim the privilege of being
considered young. She had assumed the veil from conviction certainly,
but it was from the conviction that it would free her from the restraint
and formality of a home governed by an austere father, and a bigoted,
tyrannical mother; it was also a sure way to save a fame against which
the breath of scandal had dared to whisper. Nor was she disappointed in
the liberty she expected to enjoy; a devoted admirer she possessed
before she entered, having no occasion to die of grief at her loss.
Such was the Mother superior to whose spiritual direction a young and
innocent girl was to be confided. Accompanied by the father confessor
and the old marchioness, Clara was driven to the convent. On one side
of the building stood the church, an edifice of magnificent proportions,
elegant architecture, and richly ornamented. The convent itself formed
the corner of a square; the high walls of the garden belonging to it
making up the remainder.
In front of the great entrance was a courtyard, into which the carriage
drove; when, the gates being thrown open, the almost fainting girl was
led within her prison walls, and conducted to the community room, where
the Mother superior and several of the professed nuns were waiting to
receive their new sister, of whose coming they had been forewarned.
They received the old marchioness and her young charge with every sign
of respect, conducting them to seats, and placing themselves in a row
before them, while Father Alfonzo carried on a rapid conversation with
the sisters, answering a variety of questions regarding the events which
were occurring in the city; any fresh piece of scandal, or witty story,
affording great amusement to the assembled party.
At length, the more immediate object of the visit was referred to. "I
fear me that our new sister and namesake of our holy patroness is
alarmed at finding herself among so many strangers," said the Abbess;
"but we will soon teach her to forget the vanities of the world she is
about to quit, in the contemplation of the sacred mysteries of our
religion." A faint smile crossed the features of the Abbess as she
spoke.
Poor Clara was too full of grief to answer, her struggling tears choking
her utterance; but she felt that she was sacrificing herself at the
shrine of filial obedience, and she endeavoured to find composure in the
thought. She had recovered sufficiently to bid farewell with tolerable
propriety to the old marchioness, who, after some further conversation,
retired, accompanied by the friar, and she was left alone with those who
were destined to be her future companions while life lasted, a period
which she prayed and felt might be short. The sisters crowded round
her, and assured her that she would be very happy, endeavouring by every
means in their power to cheer her drooping spirits; but their efforts
were ineffectual, for there was that sickness at her heart which death
alone could end. They led her unresistingly over the building, showing
her their cells, which were fitted up with more taste and luxury than
could have been expected; then to the novices' apartments, where she was
to take up her residence, till, at the end of the year, her profession
was made, and she had assumed the black veil, the sign of her
irrevocable vow. As they approached that part of the building, ringing
peals of laughter broke on her ear, and she was welcomed by a crowd of
young and smiling faces, who seemed little oppressed by gloom or
despondency. After being introduced to them, she was conducted through
the chapel and choir, and from thence to partake of some refreshment in
the refectory; but she turned aside her head with loathing at the very
thought of food; and the sisters, seeing that their endeavours to amuse
her were vain, showed her the apartment allotted to her as a postulant
of the order, and left her to her own reflections.
With her, religion was more of the spirit and principle, than of
doctrine, or from education; and she ever flew to her Creator, to offer
up thanksgivings for blessings, and for strength to bear afflictions,
though till now she had scarce known them.
The evening sun was streaming through the open casement, throwing a
bright refulgence around her seraphic countenance, as, with her hands
clasped, she knelt before the altar which adorned her chamber, pouring
out her soul in prayer, and beseeching forgiveness for her
transgressions.
According to the custom of the order, it was some weeks before the new
postulant was required to keep strictly the rules of the noviciate;
during which time she was expected to become familiarised to the routine
of the day, the different forms to be observed, and the duties of the
choir; but everything was carefully avoided that could in any way annoy
the young novice, or give her cause to be disgusted with her future
life. The character of the innocent Clara was at once read by the Lady
Abbess; indeed, Father Alfonzo had described it to her as he understood
it, so that the secrets of the prison-house were with vigilant care
excluded from her view.
Now Heaven forgive us, if we have the slightest thought of easting
unjust odium on institutions now happily banished from the greater part
of Europe, nor can we do aught but praise that admirable society of the
Soeurs de Charite, founded on those great principles which the
impersonification of Love and Charity taught to mankind,--a society
worthy to have been planned in the gentle breast of woman, the very
essence of all that is lovely and tender in human nature,--like an angel
of light to a spirit of darkness, when contrasted with the foul and
terrible Inquisition,--and blessed must they be who belong to it.
Volume 2, Chapter VI.
We have just discovered that we have been committing a very grave error
during the previous part of this work, in writing very long chapters,
but it is one which we have resolved forthwith to avoid, and can
fortunately do so far more easily than most others into which we are apt
to fall. We always ourselves object to long chapters, because subjects
and events are too much confused by being run together in them, and as
we suspect that most of our fair readers dislike them, we would not
willingly tire out their patience.
When Don Luis quitted the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, he
hastened homeward, his heart throbbing with deeper and more ardent love
than he had ever felt for Donna Theresa, but far more full, also, of
anxious doubts and fears.
On entering the house, he found Captain Pinto awaiting his return. His
friend gazed at him for a moment, and then broke forth into a fit of
laughter. Now, Captain Pinto was a very amiable, kind-hearted man; but,
as Burke observes, that as we constantly dwell on the misfortunes and
miseries of our fellow-creatures, we must consequently take a pleasure
in contemplating them, so he seemed to find much amusement in the
forlorn appearance of the young fidalgo.
"What! has another fair lady been unkind? have Cupid's shafts again
struck the wrong object?" he exclaimed, as Luis threw himself into a
seat. "Come, rouse up, my friend; 'tis the fortune of war we are all
exposed to, so you must try once more, and the third will be the
successful shot, depend on it. I dare say this fair Dulcinea del
Toboso, whom your lance so gallantly rescued from the power of the
brigands, was, after all, not worthy of your devoted affections. You
saw her but once, I think; and I will answer for it no woman has power
in that time to cause a man a moment's uneasiness, if he will but think
of her calmly and dispassionately."
"In mercy cease your bantering, my good friend," exclaimed Luis; "you
mistake altogether the case. I love, and, I am proud to say, am beloved
in return by the most charming of her sex; but she has been betrothed,
against her will, to another, or the alternative is offered her of
entering a convent; and I fear her father is a man of that inflexible
temper, that nothing will make him alter his determination."
"What! the thrice-told tale again?" said the Captain, still smiling: "it
sounds badly. If she is to marry somebody else, 'tis plain you cannot
have her; and if she is to be shut up in a convent, she is equally lost
to a man of your honour."
"But I cannot, I will not allow her to be sacrificed," exclaimed Luis,
vehemently. "Can you not advise me, my friend?"
"I never even heard of the lady till to-day," answered Captain Pinto,
"so I cannot pretend to say; but, from my knowledge of women in general,
dear charming creatures as they are, I should advise you to fall in love
with somebody else, and I dare say the lady will soon recover also from
her fit: they generally do."
"You know not what love is, when you speak thus," cried Luis. "I see
that you are in no humour to enter into my feelings, so I will not
trouble you with them. I must wait till to-morrow to see her father,
and beseech him to favour my suit."
"The wisest plan you can pursue; and if your fortune is larger than your
rival's, the chances are that you are successful; if not, I can give you
but small hopes. He, of course, is an affectionate father, and
considers his daughter's happiness--of which he must be a better judge
than she can possibly be--depends upon the settlement each candidate has
to offer. However, in the mean time, come with me to pay our promised
visit to Senhor Mendez, as he will be expecting us."
In those days people met in society at a very early hour, considerably
before the present dinner-time in England, so that the night was not far
advanced when Luis and his friend again left the house, having,
fortunately, taken the precaution of ordering Pedro to accompany them
with a torch, and well armed in case of being attacked. Just as the
door was carefully closed behind them by old Lucas, Luis observed some
dark figures, wrapped in cloaks, standing on the opposite side of the
street; but, supposing them to be casual passers by, he took no further
notice of them, nor did they make any advance towards his party. We
have before described the disordered state of the streets in Lisbon;
for, though there were some military police, they committed more
robberies than they prevented, stopping every single passenger to beg of
him, and, if they were refused, they seldom failed to take what they
required by force. Our friends, however, promised, by their appearance,
to make too strong a resistance, to tempt either their attacks, or those
of the professional marauders who were abroad; though had they
encountered any party of the young nobles who delighted to perambulate
the streets in search of adventures, they might have been insulted, to
draw them into a conflict; their chief danger, therefore, was from the
unsavoury showers which fell, at very frequent intervals, from the
windows of the houses, and from the troops of fierce gaunt dogs who
howled at them, as, in passing, they disturbed them from their loathsome
repast. Rats, also, of enormous size, would constantly cross their
path, seemingly in good fellowship with the dogs, and perfectly fearless
of the human beings: woe to the unfortunate wretch who should fall,
faint or wounded, on the ground!--he would instantly fall a prey to
these savage vermin.
The way to the house where they expected to find Senhor Mendez was long,
and, as may, from the above description, be supposed, by no means
agreeable; nor were they able to hold much conversation, from the
necessity both of picking their path, and of keeping on the watch
against any sudden attack either from man or beast.
"I must warn you," said Captain Pinto, as they approached the house,
"that our friend is still suffering from illness: his wounds were more
severe than we suspected, and I much fear his days on earth are
numbered."
There were many questions, much unbarring and drawing of bolts, before
the people inside the house would open the door to Captain Pinto's
summons; for the Portuguese will allow a person to run the chance of
being murdered, or to stand shivering in a shower of rain, till they can
assure themselves of his name and quality, as we have found to our cost.
At length an old lady appeared, with a maid-servant behind her, holding
a candle, and, after they had entered, again carefully closed the door.
She shook her head, in answer to the captain's inquiries for her guest.
"He is very bad, very bad, indeed," she said. "I fear he must soon be
sacramentado, or he will depart without the consolations of religion."
When a person is given over by the doctors, a priest is summoned from
the nearest church, who comes bearing the holy sacrament under a canopy,
accompanied by choristers, and a person ringing a bell, who loudly chant
at the door of the room in which the person is dying, or supposed to be
so; the very noise and ceremony, however, frequently contributing to
extinguish the flickering spark of life. The old lady, desiring Pedro
to sit down in the passage to chew the cud of reflection till her
return, in which he seemed much inclined to draw her young attendant to
aid him, led the captain and Luis upstairs, and, opening a door,
announced their arrival to her invalid guest.
Senhor Mendez raised himself from his couch, and gazed anxiously at
Luis, as he entered. "This is kind of you, though what I expected you
would do, my young friend," he said, faintly, "when you were told of my
illness. Words of thanks to you, Captain Pinto, are valueless, when
compared to what I owe you."
Don Luis expressed his sincere regret at finding him yet so far from
recovered. He smiled faintly as he answered, "I fear it is the nearest
approach I shall make to recovery in this world, yet the great hope of
reviving in a far purer existence sustains my oft drooping spirits; but
I fain would tarry longer here, for I have much to do which I would not
willingly leave undone. Captain Pinto is my executor, it may,
perchance, be but of a pauper's fortune, and at present I owe everything
to him. He, like the good Samaritan whom the priests tell us of, has
sheltered and fed the houseless and poverty-stricken wanderer. Remember
my words, Don Luis, for they are not spoken idly. Truly does he follow
the first great rule of charity; and, though it has become a principle
of his existence, I am not the less thankful to him."
"Do not speak thus of me, my friend," interrupted the generous sailor.
"I am but acting towards you as you would have done by me."
Luis, with much hesitation, begged to be allowed to afford his aid, if
possible.
"I feel confident that you would," returned Senhor Mendez. "But Captain
Pinto acts the part of a brother towards me, and what is of nearer
kindred? so that I cannot deprive him of the privilege he claims."
Their conversation was long and interesting. The sick man made minute
inquiries respecting the Count d'Almeida, and seemed grieved on hearing
that he would not return to Lisbon. He advised Luis to cultivate the
friendship of the Minister, and spoke with a tone of satisfaction, on
hearing that he had offered to befriend him. He warned him not to fall
into the vices of the fidalgos, and to shun their bigotry, and
overbearing, illiberal conduct. Indeed, he showed himself to be a
person far in advance of the generality of his countrymen with regard to
his opinions. He informed Luis, also, that he was in daily expectation
of receiving accounts from England of the safety of the fortune he had
transmitted there from India. The conversation seemed to have revived
him; and when Luis, having promised again to call on him, quitted him
with the captain, they both felt stronger hopes of his recovery than
when they first entered.
Volume 2, Chapter VII.
We must now follow the Count San Vincente, and his gay and thoughtless
friend, whom the former hurried away from the palace of the Marchioness
of Corcunda.
"This conduct of your sister's will drive me mad, Goncalo!" exclaimed
the Count, as soon as they were in the street. "Her coldness I could
have borne; but to see her receiving, with satisfaction, the addresses
of another, is unbearable; but I will punish the youth who has had the
temerity to rival me. Let us follow him; he is, probably, alone; and,
armed but with his dress-sword, we can make short work of the affair."
"I do not understand you. I cannot seek a quarrel with Don Luis; for he
has been of infinite service to my father and sister."
"Boyish scruples!" interrupted the Count, fiercely. "Let us set upon
him at once, as men, and punish him for his audacity, in addressing your
sister without your permission."
"Can a friend of mine make such a proposition to me?" exclaimed Goncalo.
"We must have mistaken each other strangely. I have been wild and
careless, but I have not become a midnight assassin."
"Your pardon,--I was but joking," said the Count. "I thought we might
fall in with this Don Luis, and enjoy a little small-sword play; for I
confess I have a longing to pink him; but you may stand aloof, and see
fair play."
"I have already said, I feel no inclination to force into a quarrel one
who has never offended me: if he seeks it, I shall be ready for him. I
must, therefore, decline accompanying you."
"Well, well, I will give up my point. He is not likely to be successful
with your sister; so it little matters; though at first I felt annoyed,
I confess, at his presumption. Come along with me, for I expect some
friends at supper, who will help us to pass the night gaily; and we may
then sally forth in search of adventures."
They were now near the count's palace; and Goncalo making no opposition
to his proposal, the former led him in, where they found a large party
of dissipated young men awaiting their arrival. The count excusing
himself for a few minutes, left his friend among them, while he repaired
to his own chamber; there casting off the gayer part of his costume, he
threw a cloak over his person, and selected a stouter sword than the one
he laid aside, which he concealed beneath it. He then again issued into
the street; and, walking rapidly along a narrow lane, he knocked at the
door of a low, shabby house, but a short distance from his own princely
palace.
"Who is there?" said a voice. "'Tis late, and all honest people ought
to be in bed."