The Prime Minister Part 23

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 l.u.s.tre 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 a.s.sured 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 grat.i.tude. I knew it not before, or I would have told you; I knew not that he loved me; but now that I feel a.s.sured 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 n.o.ble, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 p.r.o.nounce.

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 n.o.ble 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 sanct.i.ty 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 a.s.sumed 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 amus.e.m.e.nt to the a.s.sembled 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sumed 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 cas.e.m.e.nt, 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 inst.i.tutions 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 dispa.s.sionately."

"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 s.e.x; 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 pa.s.sers 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 pa.s.senger 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 n.o.bles 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 pa.s.sing, 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 a.s.sure 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."