Chapter XI: Part 11

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."